


Less is Impossible

by kreiderrider



Series: Less Is Impossible [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: F/M, also mika is trying really hard to be a good bro, no seriously please imagine chris in glasses reading books, professor chris kreider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 39,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25159099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kreiderrider/pseuds/kreiderrider
Summary: An epistolary fic: a series of blurbs, drabbles, poems, letters, journal entries, text message conversations, etcetera. It does all form one linear narrative involving Chris J. Kreider, Ph.D., who retires from hockey following an injury, goes to teach literature at a university, and finds himself drawn to the young professor who has the office near his. [The sequel to this story is No Ordinary World].
Relationships: Chris Kreider/Reader
Series: Less Is Impossible [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823284
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. genesis [august 9]

01\. genesis  
[august 9]

The dean, yesterday, had stopped you in the hall; you’d balanced your coffee mug atop a copy of a literary theory textbook, a sheaf of student essays beneath your arm, as you listened to her chatter about the new professor who’d be joining the department.

 _–in the office next to yours,_ she was saying, as you tried to keep the essays from tumbling to the floor. _He speaks five languages, one of them Russian—maybe he’ll be a good resource for your work on Tsvetaeva. He just finished his doctorate at Boston College, and this is his first teaching position. As the new department chair, I was hoping you’d help him get settled in?_

I don’t have time for this, you thought. _Of course,_ you said. _What’s his name?_

 _Chris Kreider,_ she said, and then as an aside— _oh, and he used to play hockey. Aren’t you a fan of the sport?_

The essays fell to the ground, an avalanche of papers.


	2. 02. meeting [august 10]

You’d rarely been in the office when it belonged to Maria. Chris had changed a few things; Maria’s books, of course, were gone, replaced by volumes which intrigued you: McCann and Kim’s _Feminist Theory Reader,_ an assortment of works by Judith Butler _,_ books with titles in French, a volume of Russian poetry. Two overstuffed leather chairs and a comfortable-looking couch, all celery-green, complemented the warm woodwork in the office, a refreshing change from the uncomfortable mid-century pieces Maria had arranged there. Above the fireplace, where Maria had hung a landscape painting, Chris had a flat-screen television, which you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at.

Chris noticed. “I anticipate spending a lot of late nights at the office. I want to be able to watch my hockey team when they play.”

“I’m sorry about the injury,” you said automatically. You hadn’t really wanted to start here, but here you were. “I didn’t think you’d end up as my office neighbor when you retired from the NHL.”

He gave you a half-smile. “So you know me outside of academia.”

“I do. I’ve been a Rangers supporter for a long time. Anyway, I tend to work late, too, and I’m usually watching the game on my laptop when it’s on; so, if you want company for grading and hockey, I’m happy to provide snacks and/or drinks.”

“I’ll accept that offer. I’ll never turn down a good cider.”

“Noted.” Smiling, you walked along the shelves; a glass case held an aged copy of _The Old Man and the Sea._ “First edition?” you asked, laying a finger on the oak frame.

He nodded. “Signed, too.”

“Wow. I have to admit, I’m not a great fan of Hemingway, but he undoubtedly left his mark on the literary world. That’s an incredible piece of history.”

“He’s one of my favorite authors.”

“I’ll choose Fitzgerald over Hemingway any day,” you said, with a good-natured grin. “Other favorites?”

“Thoreau, Hawthorne, Baudelaire. Lorca. Cummings… there are a lot. You?”

“My entire world has revolved around Marina Tsvetaeva this summer. I’m writing a book about her. There are biographies out there, but no one’s really taken a historical approach, which is surprising; her poetry was so subversive. It’s important to understand how she influenced Soviet readers and contemporaries.”

“One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers,” Chris said, and you recognized the quote of Tsvetaeva’s immediately.

A wide smile crossed your lips. “That’s right.”

“So, do you speak Russian?”

 _Enough to greet someone and order a plate of pierogi in St. Petersburg,_ you thought. “No,” you said. “One of my Russian-speaking colleagues has been working with me on translations, but she’s on a sabbatical this year, so our communications are more limited.”  
  
“I speak Russian. I’d be glad to help,” he offered. “Although, if you have documents in cursive, that might take a while.”

You laughed; just last April, Dr. Olkhovsky had dropped a file on your desk, cursing the handwriting habits of the man who’d written the document, going off about how Russian cursive was little better than squiggles on a page. “Apparently, that’s a theme. I appreciate the offer, though; I might just take you up on it.”

You appreciated it more than you let on, actually; you’d been relying on a colleague, Cody Sutton, who was utterly convinced that he was God’s gift to academia. You _hated_ working with him, let alone asking him for help; he, on the other hand, had made it clear he was very interested in you, despite his outward scoffing when you were named the department chair after the departure of Shanice.

The dean appeared in the doorway then. “Good morning! I’m glad you two have met. I just have a few things to go over with Chris, if that’s all right?”

“It was really good to meet you,” he said to you, extending a hand. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. Come and see me if you need any translation help, all right? My door’s always open.”

You shook it. His hand was large, and warm, and you couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like on other parts of your body.


	3. 03. text time [august 10]

  
  
  
  



	4. 04. first day [august 23]

04\. first day  
[august 23]

“Fernández’s fiction writing class is down those stairs!” Judy shouted over the din, to no one in particular—in such an old building, there were plenty of alcoves, closed hallways, and elusive rooms that didn’t seem to fit in with the numbering system. The first week of every semester in Anderson Hall was always chaotic, hallways packed with students trying to figure out which classroom or lecture hall they belonged in. You’d finished your first class of the day, an 8am on British Romanticism, and wondered how many of your students would drop by the third week once they were sick of rolling out of bed that early.

You poked your head into Chris’ office. “I’m making coffee. Do you want some?”

“God, yes.”

“I’ve got an espresso machine in here with all the accoutrements. What do you like?”

He barely looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. “Surprise me; I trust you to make something good.”

From the past few weeks’ interactions, including a morning spent at the little family-owned café just off campus answering a ton of his questions, you’d gleaned his preferences; you whipped up a latte with a fruity espresso and a dash of your homemade strawberry-lavender syrup, topped it with a bit of pearl sugar, and set the mug on his desk.

He reached for it, pushing up his glasses, and took a sip. “God. This is delicious. You are an angel.” He peered at the artfully-presented foam. “And possibly a former barista?”

You shook your head, sitting down across from him with your own steaming mug. “Neither of those, really. Anything I can help with?”

“I’m just hoping I don’t make a mess of things. Why am I nervous?”

“It’s natural,” you said. “But you’ve done it before. You lectured to 100-level classes in grad school. You’re going to be fine. Breathe.”

He picked up his briefcase and you saw a stack of books: two collections of Marina Tsvetaeva’s poetry, what looked like a Russian dictionary, and a thick tome which, upon further inspection, was a book on Soviet history. On the bottom was a book from the university library: your thesis. When you looked up at him, the question was in your eyes, but you didn’t speak it.

“I thought I’d brush up,” he said, pulling on his suit jacket. “I thought if I had context, it would be helpful. I think you’re a brilliant writer, by the way. Your thesis was fascinating.”

“I—thank you. Good luck with your first class,” was all you managed to say, as he tucked his laptop under his arm and waved.

You headed back into your office and texted Jocelyn immediately. _He read my thesis,_ you tapped out. Almost immediately, your phone buzzed with the response.

_lbvs he wants to eat you out. #confirmed_

You couldn’t help but laugh. You also couldn’t help but allow yourself to wonder if that might be a possibility.


	5. 05. water + wings [september 15]

05\. water + wings  
[september 15]

You stepped out of the locker room to hear the unmistakable sound of splashing.

The pool in Bailey Hall was never occupied at night; it was part of the reason you had established a routine of going for a swim after teaching your 5:00 class on Wednesdays. You loved the solitude. Sometimes you’d do laps, but other times you just floated on your back, staring up at the exposed beams, enjoying the glimpses of the moon through the skylight.

When the swimmer came up for air, you recognized him instantly. Chris stopped when he saw you, treading water; you couldn’t read his expression, but you were suddenly intensely aware of how much skin you were currently showing.

“Hey, neighbor,” you called out, smiling—anything to break the silence. You sat on the edge where he was, dipping your legs in the water. “There’s usually no one here. Wednesday evening swimming in the abandoned pool is my usual routine. Are you joining me now?”

“I—uh, low-impact workout,” he stammered. “The doctors suggested it.”

“Makes sense,” you said, sliding into the water.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m here… if this is your usual thing, I don’t want to disturb your peace and quiet.”

You did value your peace and quiet, but you also thought it wouldn’t be so bad to have him there with you. “Tell you what; let’s do our laps and save any conversation for a nightcap. I have a few articles I’d like you to look at, if you’re not racing to go home after this.”

He smiled. “Deal.”

You both swam your laps, choosing opposite ends of the pool; you snuck a peek now and then, at his wet skin glistening in the starlight, at the speed with which he moved through the water, his still-powerful thighs and arms clearly suited to more than just hockey.

As you touched the tile and pushed back to finish your last lap, you indulged yourself for a moment, closing your eyes to imagine those thighs working to your advantage.

–

After toweling off and changing, the two of you walked down to a sports bar just a few blocks from campus. You watched—half amused, half impressed—as Chris took down an order of ten chicken wings in what seemed like seconds, and then decided to order another.

“What?” he said, as the server departed your table.

“I’m just—” You searched for a non-offending word. “Impressed.”

He spat out a laugh, and his cheeks turned pink in the dim glow of the screens on the wall. “Figuring how much food I should be taking in is an adjustment.”

“So while your fingers are clean—” he laughed— “do you want to take a look at this one?” You pulled up a document on your phone and slid it across the table to him.

He adjusted his glasses and furrowed his brow, trying to decipher the small text on the PDF. “It looks like a letter.”

“Well, yes. Can you make out what it says?”

“It’s a love letter.”

You were growing excited. “What does it _say,_ though?”

“Dearest Marisha—I long for your hands once again. My heart flourishes best when beneath those thick fingers—those fingers which suit me well. I wish I were a glove for them now. Soon, soon! All my love, Anna.”

You sent a piece of celery flying in your excitement. “Oh my God!”

Understanding dawned, and his jaw dropped. “Anna Akhmatova?”

You nodded excitedly. “Jesus! If this is authenticated, I’ll have the find of the century for my book! Two of the greatest Russian poets—everyone always wondered if they’d had an affair—and now, evidence!”

“Where’d you get it?”

“This morning. I know a woman who works at the Marina Tsvetaeva House in Moscow. They were cleaning a desk she had owned, and the lining came out of the drawer. Underneath it was this. She sent me photos. Her English isn’t terrific, though, so I wanted you to look at it.”

“Holy _shit._ ”

You held a stick of celery thoughtfully to your lips; you’d been absentmindedly eating them off Chris’ plate after Chris had said he didn’t want any. “What a line, though. I wish I were a glove for your fingers? Anna Akhmatova could even make getting fingered sound elegant and beautiful.”

He laughed.

You looked at the other letter together—another missive from Akhmatova to Tsvetaeva, this one longer and even more explicit in its descriptions—and you sat contemplating it while Chris tucked in to his second order of wings.

The conversation eventually turned to other topics, and you learned that he wanted to move back to Massachusetts one day; that he had never been to the House of the Seven Gables despite living so near; and that he was about to adopt a pair of kittens.

“Next week,” he was saying, unfolding a wet wipe to clean his hands, having finished the wings. “They were just spayed and neutered, so I have to wait until they’ve healed enough to come home.”

“What are their names?”

“I don’t remember. I’m going to re-name them.”

“Who will they be?”

He took a sip of his beer. “Dinah and Snowball. Dinah from _Alice in Wonderland,_ and Snowball after Ernest Hemingway’s first cat.”

You couldn’t hide your laughter. _“Hemingway._ Of course.”

“Like you wouldn’t name your cats after Hawthorne characters. Hester and Pearl running around your house, probably. Or maybe Moira and Lydia from _The Handmaid’s Tale?”_

You were laughing. “If I named them Moira and Lydia, they’d tear each other apart.”

“What _did_ you name your cats?”

You made a show of checking your phone. “Wow, it’s like 8:30. We should be heading home for the night. I have a morning class…”

“What are they named?”

You groaned. “Arwen and Pearl. And yes, I did name her after Pearl from _The Scarlet Letter,_ and yes, she is a little demon-spawn cat, and I love her anyway.”

“Arwen? You’re kidding. _The Lord of the Rings_ is one of my all-time favorite series. I started trying to learn Elvish once.”

“Quenya or Sindarin?”

He just stared at you for a moment. “I like you a lot,” he said, and although you knew he must have meant solely as a friend with similar interests, you couldn’t suppress the little flutter in your stomach.

You weren’t kidding about needing to head home, though, and Chris signaled the server to get the check, which you split. He was beside himself about your interest in _The Lord of the Rings_ , and when you told him on the way out the door that you’d once taught a class specifically on Tolkien, his face looked like the human version of the heart-eyes emoji. You were feeling pretty smug about your decision to spend the entire summer before junior year studying everything to do with Middle Earth.

As you passed the Delta Zeta house, the conversation turned once again to your book. Chris offered to read your draft, an offer you took gratefully.

“God, it’s cold,” you said, hugging yourself for warmth. A chill ran through your body and you shivered; Chris automatically unzipped his hoodie and hung it around your shoulders. “Thanks,” you said. The fabric was thick and still held his warmth, and it smelled like chlorine and cologne.

“Unfortunately, I have no gloves for your fingers,” he said slyly, and you cackled. Privately, you thought he just might—if he was adventurous enough. You shook the image from your mind. It was no good to be picturing him writhing on your finger while you were trying to hold a conversation.

“So,” he continued. “This was a great night. What next?”

You glanced up in surprise, wondering if he had just acknowledged this as a date. Or a pre-date, even. It hadn’t been either of those, officially. What—

“Two new pieces of information on your subject,” he continued quickly. “What’s your next move?”

You deflated a little bit, although you _were_ still ecstatic over the content of the letters. “I have some major changes to make to my manuscript. Premature, maybe, but I have a deadline.”

You strolled in silence for a while, the first handful of fallen leaves crunching beneath your feet. All you wanted was for him to reach out and put an arm around you. The space between you felt too vast for comfort. It was like a field of static, buzzing so palpably that you could feel it; you wondered if he was feeling the same.

Chris nodded his head toward the east. “There must be a game?” You were cresting the hill; lights illuminated the football field.

“I guess.” You squinted. “Looks like they’re in the second half.”

“I hear we’re good. I’m kind of tempted to go watch the rest of the game, actually. Do you want to come with me?”

“I’m keeping your sweatshirt on,” you said, and he laughed.

“Fair enough.”

And that’s how you wound up in the crowded bleachers, pressed thigh-to-thigh with Chris, sharing a little bag of popcorn and listening as he explained a game you knew very little about. You had a stack of papers to comment on already, but this was more important right now: the accidental brushes of skin, the way his face lit up when you asked him questions about the game, the hot chocolate he brought you on his trip back from the restroom because he knew your hands were cold.

You were back in the faculty parking lot too soon.

“I’m glad you followed the temptation to go to the game,” you told him. “I had fun learning about it.”

He beamed, that quick smile that put dimples in his cheeks and turned his eyes into sunbeams. “I’m glad you came.”

You went to unzip his hoodie, but he shook his head. “Keep it for the night so you can stay warm. You can give it back to me tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” you said, maybe a little softer than you meant for it to come out.

“Well. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said awkwardly, as if he knew that this was exactly where you’d kiss, if it was a proper first date.

“Yeah.” You wanted to linger; every bit of you did. Instead, you said, “Thanks for walking me back to my car. See you in the morning!”

He watched you leave; you saw him in the rearview mirror, lingering for a moment before he got in his own car.

On the way home, you couldn’t help yourself. Behind the wheel, you were grinning like a high school girl who’d just been given her first boyfriend’s sweatshirt to wear.


	6. 06. knights, kings, & bishops [october 19]

06\. knights, kings, & bishops  
[october 19]

You’d established a routine already.

Neither of you had anyone to watch hockey with, and you found that you really enjoyed each other’s company while the game was on. You were also both swamped with work; he was putting in the extra hours common for a first-year professor, while you were devoting time to both your book and your classes.

So, every time the Rangers played, you’d gather in Chris’ office with food and shut yourselves away from the rest of the world. You could provide feedback for him, as a good mentor should; he could help you translate on the spot, instead of you having to wait for translations via e-mail. It was a phenomenal system.

Tonight was a game you’d been looking forward to; the Rangers were playing your least favorite team. Arms full of papers and takeout, you used your elbow to open the door to Chris’ office and pushed inside. “Fuck Vegas!” you greeted Chris, grinning. Then, you set a large paper takeout container on his desk. He opened it; it was filled with a mountain of wings. He lost it.

“Oh, God,” he said, laughing. “I really shouldn’t eat this way any longer. I don’t work out that much.”

“Bullshit. True or false; you could be physically barred from the gym and you would still figure out a way to break in?”

He sat down and, in defeat, picked up a chicken wing. “True,” he sighed, and you settled in with your Mediterranean wrap and your lecture notes on Elizabeth Bishop.

“Why do you hate the Golden Knights so much?” Chris wanted to know.

“Because I’m a petty bitch,” you said. “The terms they got in their expansion draft? So bullshit.”

“So what about Seattle?”

“The Rain City Bitch Pigeons will join my shit list in their inaugural year.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh that came out of him only when he found something more than mildly amusing. You couldn’t help but grin; you loved to make him laugh like that.

“The _Rain City Bitch Pigeons?_ ”

You held up a hand. “I can’t take credit. I heard it somewhere. Who’s starting in net?”

“Hank,” Chris said. “I thought Coach would start Yorkie tonight; he’s really taken over as starter.”

“Yorkie!” you said.

“Your goalie’s legs spread so wide Shoresy thought he was Reilly’s mom,” he said, without missing a beat. “Scholtzy!”

You burst out laughing. You’d spent last Saturday at his apartment, showing him how to take care of Snowball, who had ear mites, and how to clip the kittens’ tiny claws safely. It was his first time with cats; he’d never been able to have them before, since he was on the road for games so often. You’d ended up not being able to move from the couch, because Dinah curled up and went to sleep on your lap; as a result, you’d started watching the second season of Letterkenny, since Chris had somehow only seen the first. Two episodes had turned into ordering pizza and marathoning the whole season.

A knock at the door interrupted your laughter. Since Chris had started in on his food, you got up to answer it, and were greeted with a face you didn’t want to see.

“Good evening, Cody,” you said, doing your best to remain patient and professional.

He wore a look of surprise. “I—” he stammered, then saw Chris over your shoulder. “I thought I had the wrong office for a second. Chris, I was just coming to return your book.”

“Oh, I can take it,” you offered.

Chris apologetically held up a chicken wing. “Dinner,” he said, by way of explanation.

Handing you the book, he noticed the game on TV. “So—you’re just hanging out, having dinner, and watching the game? In the office?”

You held up your notebook. “Lecture notes on Elizabeth Bishop. Chris is working on the same thing for Hemingway.”

“Hm,” he said, that same pinched little noise he made every time he disapproved of something. You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

“Face-off,” called Chris. “Thanks for bringing the book back!”

“You’re welcome,” Cody said, and you shut the door, immediately turning to pull a face.

“I _hate_ him,” you whispered, passing by Chris’ desk, setting the book on a pile of papers. You saw the question mark on his face. “He spent all of last year trying to coerce me to date him, no matter how many times I made it perfectly clear I wasn’t interested.”

Chris bristled. “I wouldn’t have lent him anything if I’d have known that.”

“I mean, _you_ have no reason to hate him—”

“You just gave me one. That bullshit should never be tolerated, and I especially won’t tolerate it when they’re messing with someone I care about.”

The turn of phrase was a little surprising, and it pleased you to think of him as someone who would protect you. “Are you going to do to that Cody what you did to this Cody?” You nodded at the screen, where Cody Eakin had taken a cross-checking penalty just fifty-seven seconds in to the game.

His expression was unreadable. “I don’t think the dean would take kindly to the new professor bashing a colleague’s head in with a copy of Perrine’s _Sound and Sense._ ”

You laughed. “What if it’s sanctioned by the department head?”

Your conversation was interrupted then by Rosen’s call—Kakko had just sent a rocket over Fleury’s left shoulder, and you both let out a celebratory shout.

Two minutes later, Panarin beat everyone to the puck and, in a burst of speed which reminded you of Chris’ playing days, made it 2-0 on a breakaway goal.

Panarin said something on his skate past the Vegas bench, a couple of the Golden Knights chirped back, and Andersson’s lips were easy to read: _shut your fucking mouth._ The puck dropped, and so did the gloves—Andersson sent his counterpart to the ice with one well-placed fist.

“This,” Chris said, “is going to be interesting.”

Quinn was shouting from the bench—the Vegas player had only been issued a two-minute for unsportsmanlike conduct, since he hadn’t dropped his gloves nor thrown a punch. Your pen was in your mouth and you had no sense of Bishop’s beautiful descriptions of the world after watching Andersson storm into the penalty box, shouting a stream of invectives across the way. Knowing it was futile to continue, you snapped your notebook shut.

“Yup,” Chris said, and slid his notes to the side. “This is going to be one of those games. I’ll just have to stay up late and finish.”

He moved from his desk to join you on the couch just in time to watch Lundqvist absolutely stonewall their new hotshot forward, whom they’d picked up in the first round of the draft after a spectacular fall from grace to a 29th place finish last year.

“Can’t believe Hank’s still playing,” Chris said. “He outlasted me.”

“Long live the King,” you quipped, and he smiled.

The period was full of back-and-forth action and some solid attitude out of both sides: just the kind of game you loved.

“Mika with some solid chirps tonight,” Chris said, watching his best friend smirk at William Karlsson after he scored.

You eyed him. “How can you tell?”

 _“Du är en jävla duva,”_ Chris said. “Mika just told him he’s a fucking pigeon in Swedish.” He paused. “Pigeon means—”

But you were already cracking up. You knew “pigeon” meant someone who wasn’t good enough to score on their own and needed to rely on the scraps left over from their linemates. “God, after he got demoted to the second line, too. Harsh. I love it.”

“I mean, I was _kind_ of a pigeon.”

“So you speak Swedish?”

“You speak hockey?”

“Could I even appreciate Letterkenny if I wasn’t fluent?”

“Fair point. Yes, I speak Swedish.”

“Judy said you speak five languages. English, Russian, Swedish…”

“Spanish, and French. I’ve been working on Finnish.”

Your eyes widened. “Finnish is like. Such a monstrous language. Right? Isn’t it incredibly difficult?”

“Sure, but I picked up quite a bit from some of the guys I played with.”

The TV interrupted you. “The goal is under review,” announced Rosen, and you turned to see what Quinn’s challenge was and if Lundqvist’s shutout would remain intact.

Upon review, Chris thought Karlsson didn’t make contact with Hank; you were convinced he did. “His elbow,” you said. “Look at how the angle of Hank’s arm changes when Karlsson—there! That frame. He totally knocked his arm away.”

“I don’t know. I think it just looks that way. I wish there was a different view, this is such a tough angle…”

The referee skated out of the booth. “After video review, it was determined that the player made contact with the goalie. No goal!”

Caught up in the moment, forgetting how careful you had been around Chris, you nudged him playfully with a shoulder. “Called it!”

“I gladly concede defeat,” he grinned.

The puck dropped, and Mika lost the face-off. But Andersson shot out of the box as the penalty expired, and intercepted the cross-ice pass intended for a Golden Knight. The crowd erupted, on their feet as he executed the dirtiest of dangles, lighting the lamp and leaving Fleury on his knees in the aftermath, just seven seconds after Karlsson’s goal was called off.

You flew to your feet. “Fuck youuuuuu, fuck you, fuck you,” you half-chanted, half-sang.

Chris lost it. If you would have looked at him instead of laughing at Marchessault snapping his stick in two, you would have seen eyes so starry Van Gogh would have painted their likeness.

During your conversation in the first intermission, you learned that he had never really learned to play chess, and that he wanted to; you immediately went to your office, grabbed your chess board, and set up. He was down three pawns and a bishop before the second period started. “You’ll get the hang of it,” you told him. You were a patient teacher; he was a quick learner.

By the end of the second period, Andersson had achieved his Gordie Howe Hat Trick with a beautiful saucer pass to Kakko, who put in the third goal of the game.

“No knights on the board tonight,” said Chris, while sliding his bishop across the red squares to strike the last of the horse-shaped pieces from the surface.

You groaned. “That is a terrible pun.”

“You love my puns.”

“Do I have to admit that?”

“Yup.”

You moved your queen, placed a finger on her crown to examine the possible consequences of your move, then let go. “I actually _do_ love your terrible dad jokes.”

He made a sound of protest. “I don’t think you can call them dad jokes. I’m not a dad.”

“Cat dad,” you said, watching his eyes flicker across the pieces.

“Fair. I’m not sure that I ever want to do the dad thing, to be honest.” He advanced a pawn.

 _Why are you so fucking perfect for me?_ “I don’t really want to do the mom thing, either. I have cats. I have nieces and nephews to spoil and love on. That’s what I want.”

“I feel like it’s tough to find like-minded people on this subject,” Chris said. “I read about so many millennials not wanting kids, or any of the other ‘normal’ stuff—”

“Just avocado toast. That’s all we want.”

He laughed. “Every girl I’ve dated, though, seems to have this ideal future already planned out. Big house, kids, all this stuff that I have no interest in.”

“I hear you.”

“Is it the same way for you?”

You dangled your rook between your fingers. _Okay, so we’re going here, are we?_ “You have to have noticed that we are not living in a bastion of progressive society around here. I ended up going on a bunch of terrible dates with guys that…” You sighed, a long, exhausted exhale. It wasn’t long ago that you’d decided to quit the search for a while. “One guy literally called it a waste of hips when I told him I didn’t want to have kids. One guy asked me what I’d want to leave America for when I talked about my desire to travel. One guy thought the best pick-up line was to make a vulgar joke out of ‘cock-a-doodle-doo. One guy—”

“Are you _serious_?”

Despite yourself, you laughed. “Oh, yeah.”

Chris looked thoughtful. “He could have at least been clever about it.” He put on his best Canadian accent. ‘Some say sex is a chore. I say there’s nothing wrong with chorin’ and if you do what you love you’ll never work a day in your life.’”

You side-eyed him and mimed typing on your phone. “Don’t come up the property.”

He cracked up. “Cold.”

“So, yeah. I’d kill to find a respectful, well-read, well-spoken man who—” _fuck it,_ you thought. “Who loves cats, hockey, traveling, and art, who makes me laugh, who doesn’t want kids, and who can preferably cook a mean shepherd’s pie. Know anyone like that?” You placed your rook on his end of the board. “Check.”

“Mate,” he observed, quickly spotting that there was no way to exit or block the predicament his most important piece was in. “I’ll have to keep an eye out for you,” he said, tipping his king over to concede defeat.

“You do that.” The puck dropped on the third as you put the game away and so did Brady Skjei, sinking a rocket from the point with just two minutes gone from the clock, making it 4-0.

You watched the game in relative silence until there were about five minutes left. “I’m thinking about going to Ireland for a few weeks after the end of the school year,” he said, his eyes still on the TV.

“Why Ireland?”

“Why not?”

You looked at each other for a moment, and Rosen’s call—“and with the empty-net goal, Panarin seals the fate of the Golden Knights!”—jolted you back to reality.

With the hockey game over, you both transitioned back into work; you did need to get your lecture notes done, and Chris had said he’d needed to stay late. You cracked your book open and got to work.

The next thing you knew, a hand was gently shaking you by the shoulder, and you forced your eyes open just enough to see Chris staring back at you, his face closer to yours than it had ever been. “It’s eleven,” he was saying quietly. “I thought you’d probably rather sleep in your bed.”

 _I’d rather sleep in yours,_ you thought drowsily, _wake up to this face again…_

Your eyelids fluttered and he squeezed your shoulder. You never wanted him to let go.

“C’mon. We can walk out together.”

The brisk fall air helped you to wake up a bit more as you headed out to the faculty lot with Chris. You were feeling fairly awake as you climbed into the driver’s seat of your car, but you were yawning enough for him to be concerned.

Twenty minutes later, as you were sliding into bed, you got a text.

_Hey—just checking to see if you made it home all right._

You smiled and tapped out a response.

_I’m just about to fall asleep (on my pillow). Thanks for checking on me._

A second later, your screen lit up:

_I’ll sleep too, now that I don’t have to worry about you! Thanks for the chess lesson and the fun game; see you at work tomorrow._

When you closed your eyes, you were usually looking forward to an escape from reality.

This time, you weren’t sure the dream world could give you the joy you felt right now.


	7. 07. thoughts [october 28 / october 31]

07\. thoughts  
[october 28 + october 31]  
  
 _> **you** <_

October 28—

Evidently, Cody is jealous that Chris and I are friends? He went to the dean about us, bitching that “relationships between colleagues are inappropriate.” Maybe if we’re dating, but we’re not dating? We’re just friends and have worked out a good system? I literally had to sit at Judy’s desk and ask if there was something inherently taboo about sitting in the same office with my colleague and watching a hockey game while writing lecture notes and eating some food. Good thing Judy possesses some common sense.   
  
In other news, I wish Cody’s suspicions were right, because god damn if I’m not having a very difficult time. Not only does Chris break my brain every time I look at him, he’s such a—what did Pierre McGuire call him that one time? A “highly cerebral humanoid?” I mean fuck Pierre, but he’s right. I love listening to Chris. I love sitting together and going over research. I love when he reads text in Russian and then translates it to me right away. (I’m still trying to figure out an excuse to get him to speak French. I want to hear it). I went to one of his lectures on Hemingway the other day and it literally made me want to read _The Old Man and the Sea._ So I did, and then I ended up writing a _fucking poem_ about it and I’m just bewildered that he somehow made me… appreciate Hemingway? What.

For posterity, here’s the poem.  
  
The Young Man and the Sea  
  
He sets out from Cape Elizabeth on a little skiff  
into the silvery Atlantic at dawn;  
 _несчастливый_ , he whispers, and the salty wind  
throws the word against a cliff.  
His curse, he swears, is gone.  
He dreams of fighting fish, of yellow fins,

  
of something more than mottled cod.  
In afternoon, a bite: too strong to reel.  
 _I’ll take you by surprise,_ the young man thinks.  
He settles in and prays to God  
that his fish will equal many meals,  
that Gretzky will prevail at the rink.

  
 _I can pull you, fish, but I will let you tire.  
_ He eats a bit of bread and takes a final look  
into the deep.  
The black of the sea meets the black of the sky;  
the moon hangs, an empty fishhook,  
and the young man holds the line and sleeps.

  
He’s awakened by a pull, a smack  
of nose and bone against the stern;  
she’s pulling further yet from shore.  
Blood dripping, palms raw, he holds fast.  
She’s still on the line. His feet stand firm.  
 _Tomorrow, fish. I’ll wait one day more._

 _  
_The next morning sees him rise,  
prepared to fight.  
 _You will come home with me today, fish.  
_ In his weathered palms: the line.  
Sun and salt and sweat collide  
on bronze muscles blessed by Helios.

  
The fish responds right away:  
she circles and he pulls, a deep-sea tango  
until she’s there beside the skiff,  
blue like tokens worn by brides on wedding days,  
chain-mail sapphires with a sheen of gold:  
a more beautiful adversary could not exist.

  
Regret sets in. _One of us must die today, fish.  
_ She pulls him close; his hand lands on her fin.  
Behind him, the harpoon, too far to reach.  
 _One of us must die—I am not sure I care which.  
_ His body is broken, somewhere within,  
an injury he cannot treat.

  
 _The Great One played with a broken rib in ’93.  
_ _I must be worthy of him.  
_ His bones cry and shriek, but he will not rest.  
He plunges bleeding hands into the sea  
And wrestles body and fin—  
She presses against his breathless chest.

  
He pulls her nearer still,  
Weapon at hand,  
And as he is about to deliver the fatal wound  
Her dark eyes kill  
the need to prove his worth as a man.  
His fingers drop the heavy harpoon.

  
 _We are equals, fish; I cannot take your life.  
_ _I cannot sell your flesh.  
_ _I cannot catch you just to boast.  
_ He draws his rusty knife  
but cannot bring himself to thrash  
the rope that binds them both.

  
He sits down in the boat.

  
_Fish, take me out to sea.  
_ _Fish, it’s you and me._

_———————————————————–_

_> **chris** <  
_

October 31

The English department’s Halloween party was tonight, and guess who dressed up as Zelda Fitzgerald? Short flapper dress and the whole works. I quite literally had to go to the bathroom to adjust myself; that’s how much of a problem it was. Mika says she obviously is interested in me, and that if I can’t see that after she rattled off her list of qualities she’s looking for in a man a few weeks ago, I deserve that “big jet, no pilot” nickname more than ever. I mean, I’d ask her out in a heartbeat, but I’m not going to be that asshole who makes my colleague uncomfortable. Not only that, I don’t think I’m even allowed to date her, since she’s the department chair.

I definitely closed my eyes and pictured her earlier while getting off, though.

I’m in so much trouble.


	8. 08. i don't want you like a best friend [november 8]

A chill permeated Chris’ office; despite the November cold, the heat hadn’t yet been turned on in your building. You suspected it had something to do with budget cuts; the whole university had felt the crunch lately. The unseasonable rain and harsh winds pelting the windows didn’t do anything to help make it warmer. Luckily, the gas fireplace was operable, and Chris had spent last week figuring out how to operate it; the two of you sat together on the thick rug in front of the fireplace, a pile of papers and books spread out between you. One of your playlists was on in the background; you liked listening to music for ambient noise as you worked, and Alina Baraz was currently providing a nice, calm soundtrack.

While you sorted a pile of papers and set them out of the way, he worked on a translation, focused eyes going back and forth between the legal pad he was scribbling on and a copy of Anna’s letters to Marina—there had been another, stuck to the bottom of the desk lining, and had since been carefully photographed. Your friend at the museum wondered whether or not they’d be able to separate the delicate paper from the lining. “It’s going to be the letter or the desk,” she’d said in a phone call.

For dramatic effect, you were writing a hypothetical scene: _imagine, Tsvetaeva alone at her desk, receiving missives from a secret love, and tucking the cherished messages away, safe, where no eye but hers could read them._

“Finished,” Chris said, handing you the legal pad.

You were on a roll, so you set the pad beside you and continued to type. Without another instruction from you to give him something to do, he picked up one of the books nearby—the Russian copy of _Bride of Ice—_ and thumbed through it. In your peripheral vision, you saw him smiling fondly at the poem he was reading, and glanced up from your laptop screen. He noticed you looking.

“I haven’t read a lot of her work, at least before I got to know you. I just feel this one. It says things I haven’t been able to find the right words for. _Я люблю тебя - как буря над головой - я должен признаться в этом.”_

He looked at you, his eyes full of tenderness, and if you knew no Russian at all, you might have mistaken the look—but you knew enough of the language, you knew _just enough,_ to know his purpose.

_I love you—like a storm burst overhead, I must confess it._

But you had told him you didn’t speak Russian.

 _This is a lot,_ you thought inwardly. _My God._

A gust of wind hit the window. “I caught a couple of words. Confess, maybe?” You tried to keep the tone light; humor had always been your shield. “Guilty conscience? Did you get away with a misconduct at some point? I absolve you of your sins.”

His gaze fell to his hands, which were now absentmindedly running over the edges of the pages. _Thwwip. Thwwip._ The pages zipped through his thumb and finger. “You ever have a secret that you want to scream out, but you’re afraid of what would happen if you did?”

 _Oh, my God._ You chose your words carefully. “God, yes. I have one of those right now.”

He looked up, trying to read your face. “What’s yours?”

“You first.”

“I’m the worst at this…”

 _He’s so awkward it hurts,_ you thought, watching him study the edges of the book as if they held all the information you were searching for. _And so cute it’s painful._ “We’re friends,” you said, and immediately regretted it. “You can tell me whatever. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I don’t want to be just friends.” The second the admission left his mouth, he looked horrified, as if he’d just caused the apocalypse, and his cheeks turned scarlet. “I’m sorry. I have no place saying it—I don’t want to make things uncomfortable—it’s not even, I shouldn’t, there’s enough shit women have to deal with in academia without some washed-up jock hitting on—”

You crawled over your pile of books and wrapped your arms around him, pressing your lips to his.

He held you, half-surprised, half-relieved, and you melted into him. “Your turn.”

“Same,” you said, and kissed him again.

And then you were lying on the thick-pile rug, facing each other, and he tenderly cupped your face with a warm palm; you reciprocated as your lips met, fingertips lightly dancing on his cheek, almost afraid to touch him, as though you might find out he was only a dream after all.

You brought your lips to his, and kissing him was the most natural thing you’d ever done. You knew you were supposed to feel butterflies in your stomach, or sparks flying, or some other cliché, but all you felt was the distinct and beautiful sensation of belonging; something like coming home.

You took your time; the quiet thrum of the trip-hop music transitioned into a new melody as you continued kissing each other, your eyes opening and closing. You were too close to focus on his features, but you needed to keep confirming that this was actually happening. Eventually, his fingers found the top button of your shirt and hovered there, wordlessly asking your permission.

 _Oh, we’re going_ here, _this is unexpected but—_ “Yes,” you whispered against his cheek.

His fingers deftly pushed the button through the hole and then his lips came after the rush of air, a soft kiss at the hollow of your collarbone. Another button, and his lips found the top of your breasts, just where they were pushed together by the black bra you wore. Then another, and this time his eyelashes just brushed your skin while he kissed the bottom of your breasts, still held by fabric; and another, his lips landing where your breath moved your body up and down. He continued this way, slowly, until he’d pushed your shirt from your shoulders—a kiss crowning each one, naturally—and tossed it to the side.

You went for his cardigan immediately: three buttons undone and it was in the corner, followed soon after by the soft shirt he wore underneath. You ran your hands over his torso. He’d clearly allowed himself to enjoy food now that he was no longer playing hockey, and you loved the way his body looked; still absolutely fit, since the gym was a lifestyle he couldn’t leave behind, but a little soft too, just enough to make you want to lay your head on his chest.

And his chest—it was scarred, you knew, from the surgery he’d had years ago, a faint reminder of the ordeal he’d gone through with a life-threatening blood clot. You had scars of your own, and you knew what it felt like when they were touched; you went, therefore, straight to his, tracing the length of it with your tongue and enjoying the way he shivered beneath you when you did it.

He pulled you close again, kissing you, and moved this time to your cheekbone, your neck.You closed your eyes. _Oh, won’t you be my livewire… make me feel like I’m set on fire…_ the piano on the track crackled like the sparks in the fireplace. Your nose in his neck, you inhaled the earthy scent of vetiver and cedar, dizzy on his scent like you were inhaling opium smoke.

There were no words. You didn’t need them. For all your education in language, you knew it was better in this moment to let your bodies do the talking: his still-clothed torso pressed up against yours, your foot that found its way between his ankles just to pull yourself closer, the sighs you exchanged between lips as you breathed life into this moment you’d both been aching to realize.

Then he did something peculiar; he withdrew from the kiss. Your lips inches apart, you brushed against him, missing the contact in the seconds of separation, and his tongue darted out to touch your top lip. A question mark formed in your mind, but you returned his motion, opting to let your tongue briefly trace the lower curve of his bottom lip. Back to him; his teeth found your bottom lip and gently bit down. You smiled against his lips and your tongue went to touch his lip but found his tongue instead. This was odd, you thought, but almost more intimate than the regular kisses you’d been sharing moments before. Those were out of desperation, a need for as much contact as possible after so long craving it; this was slow, purposeful, exploratory. And you found yourself loving it.

The song ended, and a breathy voice filled the room. Chris’s one hand still cradled your face, so tenderly that you wondered how thoroughly he identified with the lyrics: _I think I’m falling—I’m falling for you._ You spent several long minutes together like that, softly touching your tongues, your lips, your mouths, and you were lightheaded with the feeling by the time you allowed your hand to begin wandering. Your fingers moved from their nest in his hair down, over his shoulder, hand feeling tiny on his muscular arms, down to his wrist, before finally lacing with his fingers.

He held your hand there for a moment, tightening his fingers around yours affectionately, and then guided your hand to where you ached most for touch; up over the curve of your hip, across your thigh, and finally between your legs. You drew in a sharp breath, looking up at him, eyes pleading.

It was remarkable, how you could communicate this way; he read your eyes like a book. Letting go of your hand for a moment, he unbuttoned your pants and pushed them down; you kicked them to the side and he took your hand back in his, his palm on the back of your hand, fingers laced into your fingers, guiding your hand again. He watched your face carefully as he moved your hands back to the heat between your thighs—still outside of your panties— and urged your fingers into motion. You moaned softly and he brought his lips to your neck, leaving soft little kisses as he continued. _How do you do it? Make me feel like I do…_ the singer echoed your thoughts as you looked up at Chris, as he slowly brought your hand up and slipped underneath the band of your panties, and you thought _oh God, this is happening, this is actually happening…_

Together, you slid the black lace from your legs, and then he moved back for a third time. You kissed him, over and over, and he found the juncture between your thighs without even looking—like you’d done this a thousand times over. He pressed your own fingers against your clit and moved your fingertips in a slow, luxurious circle, more of a tease than a means to an end; the appetizer, not the main course. You made a sound—somewhere between a sigh and a moan—and looked up at him with round eyes. No one had done this to you before. A feeling of intimacy and safety like you’d never quite known washed over you. Chris had his eyes closed, and you suspected he was memorizing what made your hips twitch, what made you go _mmm—_ and when he opened them to see you looking up at him, he smiled.

He brought your hands up together, and your heart rate went up a little when he crossed his wrist with yours, arms linked, and held his fingers up to your lips. He held your gaze while he licked your own wetness from your fingers; understanding what he wanted, you took two of his fingers into your mouth at the same time, and pulled back only when they’d been sucked clean.

He took his jeans off. You’d never seen him move that fast, not even on the ice; he was back with you within seconds, leaving you to stare at the tent in his boxers. To be honest, you were a little intimidated. You reached out to him, curling your fingers around him, the thin fabric between you seeming like the biggest barrier that you’d ever faced. Your thumb didn’t meet your middle finger.

Meanwhile, he divested you of your last article of clothing, and the bra hadn’t even hit the floor before you were clasping him to you, relishing the feeling of his skin pressed up against your own. He returned his fingers to the heat between your legs, and this time— _this time—_ slid two of them inside.

Your instinct was to kiss him, right there on the chest where your face was buried, and you exchanged little smiles.

And then his fingers hooked, and you moaned into the little curls of hair on his chest; he played softly with you, experimenting with pressure, finding out how much you moaned when he went as deep as his fingers could go, trying a few different angles. 

No, not playing— _preparing,_ you realized, as his fingers stretched deep inside of you. And learning. Memorizing. _Of course he’s like this in bed,_ you thought, _he’s like this in general—always gathering knowledge, always finding new ways to—_

“Ohhh,” you breathed, as he found a particularly good angle, briefly realizing that you wouldn’t able to be vocal here in the office, that you’d have to tone down your body’s usual repertoire. “Chris,” you whispered, your teeth dragging across his earlobe, “God, we’ve waited enough, I just need you to be inside me—”

He withdrew his fingers and brought them up between your two sets of lips. And then you kissed, your lips partially meeting around dripping fingers, and you could taste yourself, salty and wet.

If kinks could be romantic, Chris had nailed it. And you loved it—just dirty enough, but just intimate enough, for a first time together. “Can I—would you let me go down on you first? You taste so good, and I just…”

“Yes.”

He kissed you, then began to kiss his way slowly down your body. You turned onto your back, the rug soft against your skin, and sighed contentedly as his lips brushed over your stomach before he nestled his head between your thighs. Leisurely, as if savoring a delicious pastille, he took one of your folds between his teeth, ran his tongue over just the outer edge, and you let out a soft _mmm,_ your head rolling to the side. Gently, he sucked at you, until you were just swollen and tender enough, and then he switched to the other side, doing the same thing.

Your clit throbbed with need, and you thought if he teased you any longer, you might explode; just as you were about to protest, the tip of his tongue found it, and you sighed with both pleasure and relief.

His curls were soft between your legs and you reached down to play with his hair. You could pull him toward you, but not now—maybe later. For now, he circled you expertly, and you loved the way he was starting slow, letting you enjoy it, building gradually toward what you both wanted.

He was good, there was no getting around that. You were amazed at how he immediately recognized all the things that made you moan and focused in on repeating those exact motions. Between moans, you wished you knew how his brain worked: how he managed that same mathematical precision in everything he did.

Your fingers were absentmindedly working, one pulling at the rug, one in his hair. “Chris,” you gasped, as he flattened his tongue and pushed against you. “Right there. That’s it. That’s—” Words devolved into little moans, and you bit your wrist in order to keep from screaming; God knew who was still in the building, after all, as you arched your back and the firelight danced on Chris’ skin and you came hard while he held your thighs tight, letting you grind and buck against his face until he was satisfied that you were satisfied.

You were breathless. You could only look at him.

“ _Now_ I can get inside of you,” he said; he leaned over, tugged at his messenger bag, and produced a little foil packet. You let out a tiny giggle, and his cheeks flushed. “I just—I wanted to be prepared if I ever—if we—” ****

“I have one in my office,” you admitted. “Same reason.”

He shook his head. “How long have you—”

You dodged the question as he slid the condom on. “Long enough.”

And then you were on your back, those strong thighs you’d watched every Wednesday in the pool now straddling you, but it was his eyes that you couldn’t tear your gaze from.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead.

You reached for him. “Yes. God, yes.”

Slowly, carefully, he entered you, watching your face for any sign that he was causing you pain; he was always conscious of the fact that his size could make for a lot of discomfort sometimes, and the last thing he wanted was for you to be uncomfortable.

But you were wet, and ready, and though you felt full to bursting, he was a perfect fit.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and you grinned up at him, arms winding around him like vines, pulling him close to you.

“This is more than okay,” you whispered in his ear.

He pulled back just enough to kiss you, a hand in your hair, his eyes closed, and you were still kissing when he began to move inside of you.

He moved slowly at first, his eyes closing to savor the feeling only after he’d watched your face for a little while to make sure you were all right. You were glad he was taking his time; the way he moved was almost indulgent, the roll of his hips giving way to contact between your thighs, your stomachs. With your legs spread wide, his motion brought every possible inch of skin into contact.

After a while, he started moving at a steadier clip, matching the tempo of the torch singer with her sultry voice— _I got caught out in the rain,_ she sang, as he established his rhythm and your eyes watered. Being filled up like this was more intense than anything you’d felt before; you’d had a few guys with big dicks in your bed before, but only one of them had been competent. Chris knew how to use what he had, and the leftover sensitivity from the orgasm he’d given you with his tongue was an asset to him at the moment. Every time he connected fully, every time he hit as deep as he could go, your nerve endings went off like fireworks and you let out involuntary half-shrieks, half-moans, noises you had to muffle in the still of the office.

When he was sure you were comfortable, he allowed his hand to leave the floor and touch you, his palm and fingers caressing your body from shoulder to breast for a few moments before he focused in on a nipple for a moment, gently brushing it with his index finger, taking in your reaction—a bit lip, a soft sigh—and deciding he wanted to concentrate on that little nub of flesh for a while longer.

He bent down and took it between his lips, pulling gently, running his tongue around it, over it; you wished fervently you were in your bed, or his bed, or anywhere you didn’t have to censor the sounds you wanted to make. You wanted him to hear just what he was doing to you, but you settled for biting his shoulder instead, your fingers lightly tapping at him as the sensitivity soared, almost to the point that it was too much.

He leaned back, smiling a little, and you relaxed, but only for a second; the angle he’d reclined into was hitting an incredibly sensitive spot. You knew you had to be quiet, but you couldn’t help it: “Chris,” you whispered.

You swore you felt him get harder the second you said his name.

You bucked your thighs against him, wanting him to bring you to orgasm; you were close now, and you had wanted this for so long that it was nearly impossible to be patient. But you were also cognizant of the fact that you usually made the world’s largest mess when you came. “Chris,” you said, with more urgency and less suspiration. “I—do we have something—to put down underneath us?” You never knew how guys would react to this. “I squirt like crazy when—”

He paused his motion. “I have a towel in my gym bag,” he offered.

“That’s better than nothing, though we might still wreck the rug.”

In the twenty seconds it took him to retrieve the towel from his bag, you swore you’d never felt so empty in your life. Your first instinct, when he was in you again, was to reach up to him and run fingers through his hair, and his first instinct was to kiss you hard. He pulled you back to the position you’d been in before, but this time you slid your leg under his, so you were even closer together— _more skin contact,_ both of your bodies screamed, your hands all over each other, your lips unable to get enough.

Breathing hard, you held tightly to him as he picked up his pace again. He wasn’t going _fast,_ not as quickly as you were used to, but you still felt on the verge of coming. He felt so good inside of you, thick, filling absolutely every inch of you, dipping his hips just at the right moment to hit that spot inside. “Chris,” you whispered again in his ear, _the altar is my hips,_ sang the voice in the background, as you bit at his shoulder, and this _felt_ holy. “God, yes,” you sighed, “yes… Chris…”

“Are you close?”

“Yes—” and then “ _yes,_ Chris, oh, oh—”

You trembled against him, still clinging tightly, and he let out the smallest moan as you came. As the static in your vision abated, as you caught your breath, he stilled briefly— laid a kiss on your cheekbone— and then rocked his hips against you.

He couldn’t even form a full sentence. “So wet,” he whispered, his voice catching; your cum was slick on your thighs, on his thighs, on your pelvis, on his stomach. You’d made a mess out of both of you and by the way he moved, you could tell Chris was savoring it.

It didn’t take long for Chris to bring you to the edge again, this time making the same indulgent motions at a faster clip, and you pulled at his waist. Before you could open your mouth to let out a “please,” you felt the rush and came again; he followed not long after, and he was so big that you could feel every moment of his orgasm as he filled you.

But he didn’t come out of you. He stayed in and pulled you wordlessly to your side, so he could stay inside you. “Just—I don’t want to be out of you yet,” he said desperately.

You acquiesced with a kiss and settled into his arms. You closed your eyes, just memorizing the moment: sweat and vetiver in the air, the flicker of flames on skin, the sound of his breathing in your ear, the soft touch of his fingers moving across your back, the taste of his lips on yours, the wind howling at the window, a breathy song— _imagine a world like that…_

You kissed his temple, fingers slowly tracing his jawline, and he let out a sound of contentment.

You’d never imagined a world this incredible before.

The last thing that registered with you before you went to bed that night was that his cologne still clung to your skin. You closed your eyes, content, satisfied, imagining he was curled around you, and fell asleep.


	9. 09. a missive [november 9]

09\. a missive  
[november 9]

In your mailbox the next morning, you found a small black envelope.

_Le Balcon (The Balcony)_

_by Charles Baudelaire_

_Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses,_

_O you, all my pleasures! O you, all my learning!_

_You will remember the joy of caresses,_

_the sweetness of home and the beauty of evening,_

_Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses!_

_On evenings lit by the glow of the ashes_

_and on the balcony, veiled, rose-coloured, misted,_

_how gentle your breast was, how good your heart to me!_

_We have said things meant for eternity,_

_on evenings lit by the glow of the ashes._

_How lovely the light is on sultry evenings!_

_How deep the void grows! How powerful the heart is!_

_As I leaned towards you, queen of adored ones_

_I thought I breathed perfume from your blood’s kiss._

_How lovely the light is on sultry evenings!_

_The night it was thickening and closing around us,_

_and my eyes in the dark were divining your glance,_

_and I drank your nectar. Oh sweetness! Oh poison!_

_your feet held, here, in these fraternal hands._

_The night it was thickening and closing around us._

_I know how to summon up happiest moments,_

_and relive my past, there, curled, touching your knees._

_What good to search for your languorous beauties_

_but in your dear body, and your heart so sweet?_

_I know how to summon up happiest moments!_

_Those vows, those perfumes, those infinite kisses,_

_will they be reborn, from gulfs beyond soundings,_

_as the suns that are young again climb in the sky,_

_after they’ve passed through the deepest of drownings?_

_-O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses!_

Back against your office door, you held it up to your lips, grinning like a fool.


	10. 10. text time [november 9]

  
  
  
  
  



	11. 11. eau behave [november 17]

11\. eau behave  
[november 17]

You’d spent the past week riding the high of sleeping with Chris and constantly anxious over the fact that you hadn’t communicated all week. You’d spent an hour on the phone with Jocelyn on Saturday, eating a pint of sorbet and overanalyzing every moment of the sex you had and every moment of the noncommunicative week. You’d had precisely one text message exchange: you’d notified him that you had finished the chapter you’d been working on, and he congratulated you and said he couldn’t wait to read it. Then, radio silence. You were convinced he thought he’d made a mistake and didn’t want to talk to you now. Jocelyn figured he was just being awkward. _That poem,_ she kept saying. _No one delivers a poem like that to a mistake_. By Tuesday, you were thrilled that he’d be back, but you were kind of terrified to see him; but when you brought the hard copy of your chapter to his office on Wednesday morning, he wasn’t in his office. _He’s avoiding me,_ you thought dejectedly, and went to deliver your first lecture of the day with a heavy heart.

You still, as was your tradition, went to Bailey Hall that evening for your swim. Chris was in the middle of a lap when you came out. At Jocelyn’s urging, you’d left your normal one-piece at home in favor of your impulse buy from a California vacation last year—a beautiful gold bikini that left little to the imagination. It was clearly not constructed for doing laps.

You waited until he saw you; you gave him a little wave, steeled yourself for an awkward conversation, slipped into the water, and swam over to him. In your head, you were going through the many different ways you could begin, but that turned out to be wholly unnecessary; when you reached him, even the distortion of the water couldn’t hide how hard he was. You wondered how those swim trunks could even contain him.

“Chris.” You could barely suppress your giggle.

“Hm?”

“I’m fine with skipping my swim tonight.”

“You want to go to Gino’s again? I… maybe after a few more laps? I just… uh… I don’t want to get out of the water yet.”

“You’re a smart man, but sometimes you’re so dumb. Water’s clear, you know. I see what’s going on down there.”

He turned pink. You said nothing, just looped your arms around his neck and kicked your feet up, letting your legs cross around his waist. He held you there for a moment, leaned over, and kissed your neck; you melted into his touch.

“You don’t regret it?” You had to ask, even if this was the most inopportune time.

He looked at you as if you’d grown a third eye. “Of course not.”

Relieved, you kissed him; he pulsed against you.

“We shouldn’t do this in the water,” he said.

And then you were both swimming toward the ladder, climbing quickly out of the pool, Chris taking your hand and leading you to the men’s locker room; you crossed the cold tile into one of the few shower stalls and Chris turned the water on warm while you pulled the yellow curtain shut behind you. Your thumbs fumbled with the wet knot on his waistband and he tugged your suit off, the saturated fabric hitting the ground with a wet slap, and he stepped out of his trunks. He lifted you into the air and your legs circled his waist again; the mist from the shower kept you warm as he pinned you against the cold tile of the shower wall and entered you. You couldn’t censor the loud groan; he was so _big,_ you wondered if you’d ever be used to it—

— _used to it,_ you thought briefly, and that fragment of a thought urged your eyes open. His wet curls clung to his forehead; he looked like the statues in the square on that rainy day you spent walking around Rome during spring break with your college roommate, beautifully sculpted, rainwater glistening from the lines of marble muscles, and you knew you could sleep with him daily and never be _used_ to this.

This was nothing like your first time in the office. This was fast, urgent, your bodies satisfying the need you didn’t have words for yet: the need you had for each other after a week apart. When you came, he held you tight and licked you from collarbone to chin and then filled you full with his own climax, breathing hard to keep his moans from echoing off the tile walls.

Then he let you down, and you stood there for a moment in the water, not even knowing what to do—he pulled you into his arms, kissed the top of your head, and stood there with you as the water rinsed the cum from your thighs.

And then you did go to Gino’s, and you sat side-by side in a booth, ignoring everyone else. Chris kept a hand on your thigh as he talked about the conference and how enlightening it all was, and he listened closely as you talked about a roadblock you’d hit in your research. You took on a plate of wings together as he talked about going home for Thanksgiving and you told him you’d e-mail him your mom’s killer stuffing recipe. Your chocolate cake only came with one fork and the waiter was too busy, so you took turns with it while he talked about missing hockey and you talked about your dreams of traveling.

You were certain, by the end of the evening, that Chris didn’t regret a thing, and that he didn’t want to ignore you; those fears had been allayed.

And when you left, you hooked your arm through his as you walked back to the parking lot, staying close to him in the fall chill. He hesitated for a moment before he said good night, his hands on your shoulders, and you knew he was thinking about kissing you.

You drove home, Norah Jones singing softly through your car speakers. You had no idea what this was, but you were determined to enjoy it thoroughly; and you knew the memories wouldn’t ever leave you.


	12. 12. roses [november 18]

12\. roses  
[november 8]

Your cheeks were the color of a Valentine’s bouquet when you slipped the envelope into Chris’ mailbox.

The Floating Poem, Unnumbered  
by Adrienne Rich

Whatever happens with us, your body

will haunt mine—tender, delicate

your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond

of the fiddlehead fern in forests

just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs

between which my whole face has come and come—

the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there—

the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth—

your touch on me, firm, protective, searching

me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers

reaching where I had been waiting years for you

in my rose-wet cave—whatever happens, this is.

You had a string of lectures in the morning, and your mind was still running over the closing lines of “Questions of Travel” when you set your portfolio on the desk and saw a single rose– blush and coral and orange like God had poured sunset into a flower– and a single handwritten note on a scrap of paper:

_This is. –C_


	13. 13. power plays [december 3]

13\. power plays  
[december 3]

“These _are_ good,” Chris said, snagging yet another chip from your tray of nachos.  
  
“Like I said. Best rink nachos I’ve ever had.”

The two of you were sitting at the arena on campus, watching the hockey team face off against the #1 ranked team in their conference. Kicked back in your seats, feet up on the chair-backs in front of you, you were careful not to be overly physical with each other—you had to maintain an image, after all—but you had to admit it was the most comfortable with another person you’d been in a while. Whatever this was that you and Chris had—you hadn’t even ventured to discuss a name for it yet—you were content.

One of the freshmen, Kyle Vang, the prize from a pretty intense recruiting battle, beat the defenseman, drove the net, and put the puck behind the goalie before anyone in a maroon jersey knew what was happening.

“Looked like you out there,” you said to Chris, after you were finished cheering.

“Was I that fast?”

You leaned in. “Can I admit to you right now that it definitely made me wet to watch you pull that move on the ice?”

Laughing, he shook his head. “You’re serious.”

“Yup.”

“Oh, so this has been going on for a _while_ with you.” He turned to you, grin on his face, eyebrow raised, and you groaned inwardly, realizing that this was the first time you’d admitted—albeit in a circular way—that you’d wanted him for a lot longer than the duration of your professional acquaintance.

“Oh, God. Shh. I didn’t say anything.” You could feel the blush in your cheeks.

“Yes, but you _did._ ”

“You’re exhausting.”

He laughed. “So what did you _really_ think when I showed up for my first day of work?”

You knew he wasn’t going to stop teasing you. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I didn’t know how I was going to stay professional with you in the office next door.”

He considered you for a moment. “Well,” he said eventually, a smile playing on his face, “to be fair, you didn’t.”

You swatted him. “Oh, shut up.”

You both laughed. “I do miss it,” he admitted, looking longingly at the action on the ice. “I should still be playing. It feels so weird not to—” He searched for words for a moment. “It just feels weird not to.”

Internally, you thought _the silver lining is that we met._ You’d never say something so goddamn sappy to him, especially so soon, but you were certainly thinking it.

“They’re running the overload.” Chris sounded exasperated. “They can’t keep possession. They should be running the 1-3-1 with Vang and Johnson’s passing skills and Mäkinen’s wicked shot. It’s a waste.” He shook his head as the puck bounced down the ice yet again; the power play was nearly over and they’d only recorded one shot on goal.

“They are short one assistant coach right now,” you mentioned. “McCall took the rest of the year off, and he runs the power play.”

Chris turned. “What? Why?”

“His wife was in a bad car accident. Traumatic brain injury. He’s taking care of her.”

“Oh, no.”

“Maybe you should take his spot for the rest of the year.”

He shrugged. “It’s not high school. Teachers don’t coach the hockey team.”

“Yeah, but in a pinch? Tell me they wouldn’t love to have an ex-NHL forward behind the bench. You could do both things you love. I know it would never replace playing, but you could still be involved, at least.”

He was quiet as the player from the opposing team exited the penalty box.

“Maybe I’ll talk to the coach,” he said slowly.

The game ended in a loss for the home team despite the show Kyle Vang put on and the decent performance by the goalie.

You filtered out with the rest of the crowd, and as you reached the parking lot, Chris turned to you. “Do you want to stay with me tonight?”

You stopped in your tracks. “Stay the night?”

He immediately backtracked. “I mean, if you don’t want to—”

“I’d love to. I just don’t have anything with me.”

“Stop at your house, pack a bag, and come over. You can park your car in my garage so no one knows you’re there. I just want to fall asleep with you one night.”

You’d been over to his house a few times now, and he to yours, but you never stayed the night with each other. It was another one of those strange bridges that neither of you knew if you could cross, but evidently Chris thought it was time. You were thrilled—you had never been so ready to rush into things, which was highly uncharacteristic, but Chris was just so different from anyone you’d ever been with before. You were constantly holding yourself back, not wanting to scare him off.

So you went home, threw together an overnight bag, and got in the car. On the way to Chris’ house, a message from him popped up on your phone: _The door’s open in the garage, just come on in when you get here. Drop your bag off in the downstairs bathroom & come to bed._

You raised an eyebrow at your screen. _Odd,_ you thought, _what does he have up his sleeve?_

When you arrived, the house was mostly quiet and dark. As requested, you went to drop off your bag in the bathroom. As soon as you flicked on the light, you had to stifle a laugh.

“Fucker,” you said under your breath. Hanging on the shower curtain was his old Rangers jersey, the last one he wore, the one with the ‘C’ on the front. A note was attached to the neck with a binder clip.

_Pants optional. ;)_

You were wearing red lace boyshorts, and you took a minute to admire how you matched with the trim on the jersey after you got it on. You left the rest of your clothes folded on the counter and headed up to Chris’ bedroom.

He was sitting on his bed, dressed in a suit, reading a book, and you just folded your arms.

“I’m sure you had a post-game fantasy or two,” he said, a tiny little smirk on his face, and you could have punched him.

You climbed into bed and flicked his arm instead. “You are an _ass_ ,” you said, and he laughed. You tried to maintain your exasperated expression, but soon you were laughing too.

“I’d like to think,” he said, “that I’ve scored a hat trick and all three were _fantastic_ drives to the net since those turn you on _so_ much…”

You flicked him again and again, both of you laughing as you kissed each other. “So tell me,” he continued, “you have, haven’t you?”

“You aren’t going to let it go, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Fine,” you conceded. “Yes. Yes I did. And what about you? Is there a reason you made me dress in your jersey? It seems like you had your own wishes to fulfill here.”

“Mmm. Touche. I’ve always been turned on by the idea of a beautiful woman wearing my jersey as a nightgown.”

“I see. Am I the first one?”

He ran a hand through your hair before answering, one of his unreadable smiles on his face. “Yeah. You are.”

That was actually unexpected, and you blinked back at him, processing this bit of information. He reached for you. “Do you like being my fantasy fulfilled?”

You didn’t know what to say. “Do you like being mine?”

“Maybe even more than I like Hemingway.” He paused for effect. “Maybe.”

You swatted his arm, and you were both smiling as your lips found each other again. You loved this about Chris—his ability to make you smile, to always make you feel at ease, no matter what.

He reached around and slid his hand beneath the jersey you wore. His soft touch was in contrast to the rough fabric, and you let out a little _mmm_ as his fingertips trailed up your spine. You laid little kisses on his collarbone as his hand moved lazily back down your spine and down to cup your ass, and moved to his neck when he let his finger trace the scalloped lace of your boyshorts.

You were on an absolute mission tonight, come hell or high water. You’d already slept together more than a handful of times, but Chris had never asked you to go down on him. You imagined that it was a pretty daunting prospect to most, but you were fairly confident you could handle him, and you wanted to at least try.

So when all his clothes were on his floor—you figured he was going to leave you in his jersey all night—you escaped his arms, pushed his hips flat to the bed, and straddled his knees.

 _“Oh,”_ he said, when he realized your intention.

 _Slowly,_ you thought.

Palms on his thighs, you took the head into your mouth. Almost like the way you explored each other’s mouths the first time you slept together, you flicked your tongue gently across the frenulum; over the very tip; along the edge. He settled into the pillows.

For a few minutes, you just played, getting used to him, figuring out which of your tricks he liked the best—but you were saving your last trick. You were just getting warmed up, but you were determined to take him all the way down your throat, and at this point you were pretty damn sure you were going to be able to do it.

His moans increased in frequency and decreased in pitch as you got a little more into it, up and down, and he sounded as though he was happy with just this. But you weren’t. So you raised your soft palate and took him inch by inch—by inch, by _inch,_ until the head of his dick met resistance in your throat. And then you pushed past it.

“Holy shit, holy _shit, holy shit,”_ Chris repeated, and you could see the fistful of bedsheet from the corner of your eye as your nose touched his pelvis; you stayed there for the briefest of seconds and drew back, catching your breath.

When you looked up at him, he was staring at you, agape, as if he had seen a myth come to life. “Holy _fuck,_ ” was all he could say. “I—I just—I never—”

Now you were feeling proud of yourself. “You never…” Raising an eyebrow, you licked him from base to tip, a tease. “Never what?”

“No one’s ever done that to me.”

 _First in his jersey, first to deep-throat him… all sorts of firsts here._ You’d process that later. “Mmm. So I’m useful outside of my literary prowess.”

“You’re going to get cocky about it.”  
  
You smiled. “There’s a pun in there,” you said before going back down, and Chris’ good-natured groan turned into a deep one of satisfaction as you took him down your throat again. And again. And again—you were tempted to just keep going, to let him come, but you wanted him inside of you so badly.

He hit the back of your throat again, your name came off his lips in a tone that was downright pornographic, and that made up your mind. This was happening.

You ran your hands over his stomach and dug your nails into his hips and gently bit down at the base, making him twitch. Then you picked up your speed and set a pace.

“Wait,” he gasped, grabbing for your shoulder, “I’m too close, I’m going to come—”

You pulled away long enough to say one word. “Good.”

His eyes opened wide and he leaned back on his elbows, watching his cock disappear into your mouth, over and over and over and—“yes,” he said, “I’m so close—here—yes—yes!”

You held his hips down, a feat in itself, and stayed with him for every second of his orgasm, swallowing every drop of cum, then staring him down as you licked your lips.

Wordlessly, he blinked at you for a moment, then got up and left the room.

Confused, you wondered if you should follow him, but you heard him rattling around in the kitchen and stayed in bed. A few minutes later, he came back with two glasses of moscato and a bag of chocolate, handed them to you, and slipped back into bed with a huge, delighted sigh.

“Well,” he said eventually, “so you were a porn star before becoming a professor. Would I know you from anything?”

“Back Door Sluts Vol. 4.,” you said dryly, unwrapping a chocolate and handing it to him. “I was the third slut.”

He laughed. “Is that a hint?”

You raised your eyebrow, biting into your own chocolate. “Maybe.”

He visibly winced. “Oh, God. You can’t say things like that when I’m still trying to process what you just did to me.”

“We never even got your jersey off of me,” you pointed out.

He ran a hand over your side. “Sleep in it and I’ll fuck you in the morning?”

“Fair deal.” You smiled. “So was this your MO during your playing days? Girls in your bed after games every night?” You were trying to keep it light, but that comment about being the first in his jersey was still on your mind.

He kissed the crown of your head, stroking your hair, and you were getting accustomed to his favorite casual gesture of affection. “No,” he said after a moment, oddly serious. “Almost never. It’s difficult for me to just have a—” He stopped short.

“A what?” You desperately wanted to hear the end of that sentence.

“I don’t know. One-night-stands aren’t really my style. I need to— I need more of a connection than that.”

It was quiet for a while, until you kissed his shoulder. “I think we’ve got a good connection.”

He pulled you close so your head was on his chest. “So do I. And now I get to have you with me all night for once. This is nice.”

You smiled into his warm skin. “Good night,” you murmured.

“Good night.”


	14. 14. text time [december 13]

  
  
  
  
  
  



	15. 15. i'm dreaming of a white christmas [december 25]

15\. i’m dreaming of a white christmas…  
[december 25]

You’d arrived in Massachusetts a few hours before Christmas Eve. Chris’ sister Katie had been there to pick you both up at the airport, and she kept looking between the two of you in the backseat on the ride from Boston to Boxford, as if she had questions to ask, but knew better than to ask them.

When you walked in the door, you were introduced immediately to Kathy and Dave, Chris’ parents, who both wrapped you in warm hugs and welcomed you. You were too tired to register most of the conversation except for a snippet of what Kathy was saying to Chris— _it’s a little cold up in your bedroom, so I put an extra quilt in the room for you and your girlfriend._ He got a little awkward, shifting his gaze from his mom to you, but you were too exhausted to betray any emotion whatsoever.

 _I thought I’d just—it was easier to say that,_ he had explained later, when the door to his childhood room was shut behind you and you were getting into bed. _So we didn’t have to explain what was going on, so we could stay in a room together._

What _is_ going on? was your thought, but you were passed out on the pillow before you could decide whether or not to verbalize it.

Then, on Christmas Eve, you were taken on a whirlwind of Kreider Christmas traditions. Chris had warned you about most of them beforehand.

The morning saw you put on some festive makeup—gold eyelids and red lipstick—and head to breakfast at a local mom-and-pop restaurant, which was decked out in Christmas décor beyond your wildest dreams. A group of carolers—their sign proclaimed that they were from the local high school—made the rounds from room to room in the restaurant, voices just childlike enough to sound like cherubim, and just mature enough to be on key and in perfect harmony. While you were in line at the buffet, Chris’ dad reminisced about both Katie and Chris caroling in high school at this restaurant, and you regarded Chris with awe. _You can sing?_ He went red, and Katie informed you that he was the best tenor in the section in high school. You sat at Chris’ side, your plate heaped full of delicious sliced sausage, baked beans, tater tots, waffles with real whipped cream and hot strawberry topping, and the fluffiest scrambled eggs you’d ever eaten topped with chives. Kathy sat across from you, eager to get to know the woman she thought was her son’s girlfriend. _Chris doesn’t bring girls home,_ she’d said, her eyes sparkling. _You must be special._ You caught the Look he gave her; she caught it too, only she simply smiled right back at him.

Then you headed back to the house. You changed into one of Chris’ old college sweatshirts and a pair of leggings for cookie-baking. Chris had explained that each member of the family got to choose a cookie variety to put on the menu, so his mom requested a recipe from you, and you’d sent along the recipe for your aunt’s sour cream cookies. You spent the afternoon getting to know each member of the family while you worked. You showed his dad how to press the Hershey’s kisses into Katie’s peanut butter patties to get the perfect cracks in the cookie surface and talked with him about custom-building bookcases; you made plans to swap recipes with his mom and discussed the intersection of visual art and literature; and you learned from Katie that your university’s women’s soccer team was apparently one of the best in the nation.

While cookies baked, Chris’ mom brought out a little ceramic pickle, probably the most confusing of all the traditions. He’d explained to you that his mom would probably tell you it was an old German tradition, but that no one in Germany even acknowledges the tradition. Katie, the winner of last year’s search, hid the little green ornament in the branches of the Christmas tree while the rest of you finished decorating gingerbread men, Kathy’s choice of cookie for the holiday. You all made one to represent a different member of the family, and you presented Chris’ to him, wearing an elbow-patch cardigan and glasses, complete with a head of curls. Katie came in, having hid the pickle, and cracked up, demanding to know if he’d actually begun to wear cardigans like that.

And then you went to hunt for the pickle, which was supposed to bring good luck—and also, in the Kreider household, an extra present. It was you who found it, nestled into a bough behind an angel in a lace gown, and Kathy clapped her hands together in delight, clearly pleased as she patted your shoulder and said you’d have to come back next year, since tradition dictated the winner hid it the next year. She presented you with your gift, a big box of gourmet chocolates, and you instantly promised to share with everyone. She also gave you another gift—a pair of soft red pajamas printed with Christmas lights.

In the waning hours of the evening, you sat snuggled under a blanket with Chris on the couch, surrounded by cookies, mulled wine, and snacks, the room lit only by the Christmas tree and the television as you watched _Christmas Vacation,_ laughing at the irreverent classic.

And afterwards, you went back upstairs to Chris’ room, undressed, and quietly wrapped your arms around him as he slipped into you. When you were both spent, he pulled you close and kissed you softly before you fell asleep on his shoulder.

—–

The next morning, the sun streamed through the mottled glass of the window, and as your eyes opened, you slowly registered two things: Chris’ absence, and a scrap of paper lying on your pillow. Rubbing your eyes, you picked it up and read it.

_Understand: we have grown into one as we slept and now I can’t jump because I can’t let go your hand. –M. Tsvetaeva_

_Understand: I wanted to cuddle for the rest of the morning but I couldn’t get you to wake up and my mom will kill me if I don’t help in the kitchen. –C. Kreider (not as poetic. Don’t forget your pajamas! See you downstairs.)_

You smiled, slid out of bed, and tucked the note in your purse. It was this sort of thing that made you wonder about the nature of your relationship with him. Jocelyn was right—friends with benefits don’t leave each other poems and love notes and invite each other to their parents’ house for Christmas. This was something more. It had to be.

Feeling cheery, you hopped in the shower, toweled off, and went downstairs in the mysterious pajamas you’d been gifted last night and instructed to wear in the morning. Ordinarily, you’d feel strange wearing pajamas in someone else’s house, but you were already feeling comfortable with his family after yesterday. You could see where Chris’ welcoming affect came from.

When you came downstairs, you found that you’d been swept into another family tradition. Standing at the stove was his sister, in a green flannel set printed with little wrapped gifts; his dad, chopping potatoes at the table, was clad in a festive Fair Isle print; his mom sported a blue pair dotted with snowflakes; and Chris wore a Santa-themed set, complete with a red hat.

You stifled a laugh, but the truth was that you’d never loved him—yes, loved, because you were willing to admit that now—more than in that moment.

He turned from the pie he was working on. “Good morning!”

You couldn’t resist coming over to greet him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “So this is the tradition?”

“New Christmas pajamas. Every year. Mom asked me for your size as soon as she heard you were coming. She wanted it to be a surprise, and I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask, so I guessed.”

“You did a good job,” Kathy said. “They fit well.”

“Thanks for the pajamas,” you said to her, “and for including me in all your fun traditions. I really enjoyed yesterday.”

Wiping her hands on a towel, she folded you into an affable hug. “Of course, dear. If you’ll be a member of the family someday, you may as well get used to us right away!”

Chris turned cherry red.

“Mom,” Katie groaned. “They haven’t even been together for half a _year_ yet. Chris just started working with her in _August._ ”

She grinned apologetically. “I think this one’s a keeper, sweetie. I have a good sense for these things.”

“Just like you thought I’d be getting married to Andrew?”

“Well, I—”

“And Casey?”

“Now—”

“To be fair, Katie,” Dave piped up, “your mom hated Casey. She just didn’t want you to know that.”

Kathy shot Dave a look, and he just shrugged. “I’m trying to back you up, honey. And she _did_ get engaged to Andrew—just not married.”

As they bantered about Katie and Andrew, you joined Chris at the counter, where he’d already rolled out the dough, and began to cut strips for the top of the pie. “Awkward,” you whispered, and he smiled.

It was snowing outside, and you gazed out at the white-blanketed world, where a squirrel ran through the frosted boughs of a Norway pine and scampered across the yard. “This is quite possibly the most idyllic, perfect Christmas I’ve ever had,” you said. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself. Despite my mom jumping aboard the holy matrimony train.”

“I really am. So what do we do on Christmas?”

“Make dinner, eat dinner, open presents, drive around to look at Christmas lights, and go skating if the weather is right. We might have to bring shovels to the rink if it keeps snowing.”

“This sounds great. I might marry you just to do this every year.”

He laughed. “Mom, is the filling ready?”

After you put the pies in the oven, Chris went over to the espresso machine. “I’ll make you coffee for a change,” he said, and you smiled.

“Do you know what I want?”

“One shot of espresso, a half-cup of milk, and we don’t have your assortment of flavors: but of the vanilla, butterscotch, and mint sitting here, I’ll bet on either butterscotch or mint.”

“Hmm. So you do know me.”

“She has an espresso machine in her office,” he explained to his mom. “She makes the best coffee drinks.”

“Maybe you should let her be in charge of the one here then,” Katie said, “so you don’t scorch the milk.”

“I have gotten _better,_ ” he insisted, pulling the carton out of the fridge.

Katie made an exaggerated “no way” gesture to you as Chris turned his back to pull the shot of espresso, and you hid a giggle as you took out the compost bin and swept the potato peels inside, then went to clean up the dough and flour on the counter.

Kathy took you by the shoulders and marched you to the table. “Sit,” she insisted, taking the compost bin from you. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Chris set your coffee and a gingerbread cookie in front of you. He’d decorated it this morning; it wore a Rangers jersey, sported your hair, and wore no pants. You cackled. “Oh my God, Chris.”

Katie leaned over, saw it, and raised an eyebrow at her brother.

“What?” he said innocently.

You shook your head at him and bit into one of its bare legs.

Before supper, you and Chris went upstairs to wrap the gifts you’d brought for his family. He had insisted that you didn’t need to bring gifts, but you wanted to thank the Kreiders for their hospitality in some way, so you bought something for each of them based on what you’d learned about them through your conversations with Chris. For Katie, you’d found a woven throw with her favorite team’s logo; for Kathy, a book with photos of the modern art in the private collection of the university’s museum; for Dave, a carry-on cocktail set. You’d also bought presents for Chris; two were meant to be opened in view of his family. One wasn’t.

After dinner, when you were stuffed full, you went out to sit around the tree and open presents. Kathy cried “oh, you shouldn’t have!” when she picked up her gift from you, but gave you another big hug when she saw the title of the book. Katie tore off the paper on her throw and told Chris she approved of you joining the family. Dave called you a lifesaver and vowed to pack it on his next business trip.

Then it was Chris’ turn. “I get two from you?” he asked. “Okay, which do I open first?”

You grinned. “The big one. And technically, it’s from more than just me.”

He furrowed his brow, confused, and tore the paper from the box. When he opened it, his eyes widened; he lifted out a jacket, embroidered with your college team’s logo, his surname in script across the right breast. “I—does this—”

“There’s an envelope,” you told him, unable to stop smiling at seeing his face. You honestly didn’t know what was in it, but you could guess.

He slid his finger under the flap, pulled out the letter, and read it out loud. “We are happy to welcome you on board as the interim assistant coach for the remainder of this season—” He broke off and came to give you a hug. “How did you get this? When—”

“I went to your office before we got on our flight,” you told him. “I had left the book I wanted to take on the plane. It was folded up on your desk. I thought I’d bring it with and surprise you here. I see you’re happy about it.”

“Wait, what’s happening?” Dave demanded. “Chris, you’re coaching?” He looked bewildered.

“The assistant coach at our college took the rest of the year off. This incredible woman—” he tightened his grip on your waist— “encouraged me to ask them if they’d like my services for the rest of the year. I was doubtful, but she had faith in me.”

Kathy was looking at you like you had sprouted angel wings. “Oh, bless you,” she said, and turned back to her son. “Congratulations, honey! That’s so great that you’ll be able to be involved in hockey again. I’m so happy for you.”

He hadn’t stopped grinning at you.

“You have another present to open,” you reminded him, playfully giving him a shove, and he kissed your cheek before sitting down.

Anxiously, you waited for him to pull the ribbon on the package. When you’d found it, it was too perfect to pass up; you knew you had to buy it, but you toyed with waiting to give it to him. It seemed too intimate, too special for a gift between friends with benefits, but _nothing_ about this weekend had seemed casual, so it seemed fitting that he receive it now.

His mouth dropped in awe for the second time that night. He turned the little statue, a lead crystal eagle, over in his hands. He had an identical one in his office, which had broken back in October when a shelf fell. He shed tears over it; his grandfather had given it to him, he said, when he signed his letter of intent to play hockey for Boston College.

When he looked up at you, he had tears in his eyes. “Where did you get it? I scoured everywhere I could think of online…”

“I was in the antique shop on 42nd and Pine last week,” you told him, “and there it was. It’s ironic that it was even there because—”

“It’s not an antique,” he finished up.

“Obviously, I couldn’t pass it by.”

He came to hug you for the second time. “Thank you,” he said. “This means so much to me.”

“Keeper,” Kathy stage-whispered.

“ _Mom_ ,” Katie warned.

Then you opened your gifts, telling the Kreiders they didn’t have to trouble themselves; much like you had, however, they insisted. Kathy and Dave had given you a tongue-in-cheek gift in reference to your love of literature and fragrance: a small bottle of Commodity’s “Book” perfume and a book about the history of perfume. Katie had given you a beautiful pair of teacups and some gourmet tea. And Chris—

“Oh,” you said quietly as you lifted a necklace out of a black velvet box. You recognized it instantly as a replica of one Marina Tsvetaeva wore in a photo.

“They sell them at the museum your friend works at,” he said.

“They don’t have a museum shop online.”

“I called them, name-dropped you, and they let me order over the phone.”

You were aghast. “I can’t even believe you.”

He shrugged, self-effacingly, and you threw a wadded-up ball of wrapping paper at him. “I just—I appreciate you so much.” You wanted to say _love—_ you sure as hell meant it—but you couldn’t say it yet. You certainly couldn’t say it for the first time here, in front of three sets of watching eyes.

“Is that what you appreciates about me?” he quipped, and the reference was evidently lost on his family, since the two of you were the only ones laughing.

Kathy was cleaning up the wrapping paper. “The sun’s down,” she said excitedly, “you know what that means!”

“It means that we’re going to go see the same Griswold-style lights we see every year on Johnson Street?” Dave said dryly, smirking at his wife.

Kathy swatted him with a piece of wrapping paper. “Oh, shut it.”

He was laughing as he got to his feet. “Chris, I think we’re going to need the shovels. Why don’t you gather up the skates and we can load the car?”

Ten minutes later, you were all piled into Dave and Kathy’s SUV, travel mugs in hand, driving around Boxford’s neighborhoods. This was clearly a Kathy tradition—“look at that one!” she’d cry, pointing out the window, and Chris would humor her by providing specific comments on every single house— _I like the icicle lights,_ or _I love how they have the strings attached to the star._ Somehow, at some point during the drive, his hand found yours, and you spent twenty minutes in the back seat holding hands, your head resting against his shoulder. Katie sat on the other side of Chris, and you saw her sneak a peek at the two of you and smile before turning her gaze back to the lit-up houses.

You did, indeed, pass the Griswold-looking house before reaching the skating rink. The snow had stopped hours ago, but there was still a thick layer of crystalline snow on the ice. Chris and Katie laced up their skates, took the shovels, and expertly cleared the surface; you could tell this was something they’d done many times before. Meanwhile, Dave pulled a handful of sticks and a bag of pucks out of the back of the SUV.

“It’s been a few years,” you said, as Dave handed you a stick. “I don’t even know if I’ll remember how to shoot.”

Chris dropped a puck on the ice, took a couple of quick laps around the rink, and pulled up next to you, looking exhilarated. “God, it feels so good to be out here again.”

“Ordinarily I’d challenge you to a race, but I know I’d lose,” you said, laughing.

“You could try to defend me and watch me drive the net firsthand.”

“Somehow, I don’t think I’d provide any challenge whatsoever—and experiencing the losing end wouldn’t be half as satisfying as watching you do it to someone else.”

He laughed and put his arm around you. “Let’s go take shots.”

You’d never been at a rink with him before, and you were fairly excited for this; he had no idea that you were actually a pretty good shot.

When you’d nailed ten shots in a row, he let out a low whistle. “Top-shelf?”

You lifted the puck and went bardown, and he stared at the net, then back at you.

“Keeper!” shouted Kathy, and Chris didn’t bother denying it.

“I played in high school,” you told him. “You knew that.”

“You didn’t tell me you were this good.”

“I mean, I wasn’t. I’m a good shot, just not a good skater. You haven’t seen me skate backwards yet. It’s pretty tragic.”

“You could have played past high school with a shot like that, if someone had worked on your skating with you.” He rested his chin on his stick, considering you. “You just keep on surprising me.”

“Match my shot,” you challenged him, and he smiled, ringing a puck off the crossbar and in. “Well,” you said, “shoulder injury or not, you’ve still got it.”

After a while, his injury started to bug him, so you ditched the hockey equipment and skated side-by side around the rink for a while, just talking. Then Kathy came by with her phone out, taking pictures. “Hold hands!” she shouted, and you both laughed, but happily obliged—then didn’t let go as you kept lapping the rink.

When your faces were red and your toes were cold, you packed up the SUV and headed back to the house. Dave and Kathy made hot cocoa for everyone, and you sat in the livingroom for a little while, snacking on the cookies you’d baked the day before. You were back under the big fleece blanket you’d shared with Chris last night, but it felt even more natural now, curled up on the couch, leaning against him, his arm around you, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing against your sweater.

And when you went upstairs for the night and undressed, both exhausted and in a wonderful mood, neither of you moved to initiate anything; he reached for you, pulling you into the sleeping position that was beginning to feel familiar, and you kissed the scar that always faced you when you fell asleep with him. He kissed you on the head, the good-night cue you’d come to expect, and you made a little sound of contentment.

Before falling asleep, you remembered that his other Christmas present was still in your luggage. But everything was too perfect to pull that out now. It would have to wait.


	16. 16. thoughts [january 15 / january 18]

16\. thoughts  
[january 15 + january 18]  
  


**_> you <_ **

January 15 —

I haven’t written in a while.

After Christmas with his family, we went to NYC to meet up with some of his friends/former teammates. It was sort of weird hanging out with them at first, just because I’ve watched them play hockey for so long, you know? They were all really nice though. But here’s something interesting: Mika was right up in my face the second we got there, like _I’m so happy to FINALLY meet you,_ and Chris looked like he was just waiting for him to do something stupid. Then we got all the way inside and sat down at a table, and played poker with a bunch of people. Mika and his fiancee sat with us (I really like her. We got along super well, which I suppose is convenient since Mika and Chris are pretty much best friends). Brady Skjei was at our table, and he was super nice but kind of quiet? His wife was with him and I liked her a lot too. Lias Andersson (who is actually HILARIOUS) was there, and Kevin Hayes, who is possibly the biggest bro to ever bro, was also sitting with us. He was drunk as fuck and kept piling up his chips, accidentally knocking them over, and yelling “Fuck, I can’t tell ‘em apart!” in a Boston accent that got stronger with every beer. (Side note: no idea why he couldn’t tell them apart. Brady helped him).

I was kind of sad that he kept introducing me as “colleague,” or “my office neighbor at the university,” or things of that nature. I mean, what else was he going to say, right, but still, I wish it was more than just that. He introduced me to Mika like that and Mika just smirked like he knew better. I wish I could have grilled Mika about what Chris has said to him about me, tbh. He seems like he knows more than he was letting on. I’m curious.

So THEN. At one point, I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, some dude intercepted me on my way back over to the table and started hitting on me. I was trying to gracefully make an exit when Chris literally came up, put his arm around me, and asked me if the guy was, and I quote, “impeding [my] enjoyment of the night.” I was like “I’m trying to tell him I’m not interested,” and Chris looked at him like _do you get the message?_ and said “Clearly, she’s here with someone.”Dude backed off. Chris kept his arm around me when we went back to the table. So a.) I kind of love that he came to rescue me? and b.) Here with someone? I texted Jocelyn at the next available moment so we could dissect that phrase. Does that mean _with_ with? I fucking feel like a high schooler trying to figure this out, I swear to God.

I lost spectacularly at poker, but it was really fun. Chris also pranked Lias, who came in second, by running across the street to the dollar store and buying him a fake silver medal. He laughed his ass off and decided to wear it proudly instead of throwing it across the bar.

Also, it’s weird, but there are these little things about Chris that I appreciate. At the end of the night, when we had plates and glasses and stuff all over the table, he took the time to pick up all the trash, put all the silverware in a pitcher, and stack the empty appetizer plates at our table before we headed out. He’s just really considerate of everyone, and I love that about him.

Then, before going home, we drove out to finally see the House of the Seven Gables and the Hawthorne house in Salem. We stood in the room and looked at the dresser where Hawthorne kept his manuscript of _The Scarlet Letter._ Chris got misty-eyed and I honestly cried a little. He held me while I babbled on about finding Anna’s letters in Marina’s desk, and the legend of Hawthorne finding the manuscript and letter in the Custom House. I love that he understands how emotional I get about this sort of thing. 

I’m starting to really get frustrated with my publishers. I told them that there was breaking news, so to speak, on Marina, and that it would be best if I could extend the deadline by a month or two. They want to push the deadline up so that they can have the book in print by the time the big conference on her work happens. I get that it would help to boost sales, but I’d rather have a book with complete information that I’m proud of. Plus I’m supposed to be teaching classes. It’s just a lot—and now there’s this relationship with Chris, too, whatever the fuck it is, and I refuse to fall victim to the nonexistent work-life balance I used to have.

Speaking of work-life balance, I went to the game last night. It’s so good to see Chris involved in hockey again. First, he looked so fucking good in a suit standing behind the bench. Second, I was so happy to see him there—he belongs at a rink, in some capacity, and it was just beautiful to see him in his element again. He’s running the offense now and they’ve started winning more already; also he’s in charge of the power play and they’re seriously 8 for 10 in the last four games. I’m so proud of him and so happy for him.

ALSO, I could not BELIEVE him yesterday morning; we had a faculty meeting early. I got to the office early and so did he. We were both GOING to do work, but he came over to say hi and things uhhh escalated? Which is to say, he went down on me at my desk this morning. We didn’t have time for me to finish BUT STILL. Then we go to the meeting, and I’m sitting there listening to Judy prattle on about some shit, but I’m actually just wondering if his breath still smells like me because of course I am. And then. Then he sits across from me licking the lid of his yogurt cup with the tip of his tongue until it was clean and just looking at me across the table. I just. He’s such a tease and I love it.

I just wish we could call it what it is. I don’t know if both of us are just too scared to bring it up or what. We spend a lot of time in bed, but there’s no way this isn’t a relationship.

**_> chris <_ **

January 18

So, things are definitely—different since Boxford. It feels more like a real relationship now. Maybe it was the whole “meet the parents” deal, maybe it was just that we pretended it was a real relationship for the benefit of my mom so we could sleep in the same room.

I like it.

Every piece of me wants to ask her out officially, but I don’t know if we’ve made the transition into official without voicing it, and I don’t want to diminish what we have if that’s what she’s thinking. Not to mention, we technically can’t be official, not when she’s my superior at work. I wish I had the balls to just ask her about it, but I’m so scared; this feels strong yet delicate at the same time, and I don’t want it to shatter.

What I want is to just embrace this. We complement each other so well, we click on every level, we communicate in the same ways—this all feels so _natural_ with her. She felt like part of my family in Boxford. She belonged there, it felt right to have her there, and I’m afraid if she doesn’t _stay_ there, it will feel unbearably empty next December. I’m scaring myself a little bit with these thoughts, but they’re unavoidable. With every day we spend together, she becomes a more inextricable part of me. I’m not sad about it in the least. I’m only afraid that she doesn’t want to be that involved, or that our careers will prevent it. Just my luck to find my dream woman and then be stopped by a rule.

I’m so grateful to her for getting me involved with coaching. It’s been a lot of fun to be behind the bench. I thought I’d be yearning to play—I mean, I still want to be out there, but it hasn’t been as heartbreaking as I’d thought. I’m just getting sick of the questions about me. I expected a few in the beginning, but it’s been an onslaught for me. And the other coaches and players are getting asked in interviews about what it’s like coaching with me and playing for me, as if I’m something extra special, and I don’t enjoy that. I don’t want the focus on me. I want it on the team.

I better go feed Dinah and Snowball before Snowball eats my pen.


	17. 17. library interlude [january 30]

17\. library interlude  
[january 30]

I got snowed in at Chris’ the other night. It was fantastic. Here’s a poem cycle for the night we spent in his library.   
  


I. apotheosis

> if my body is a temple  
> you worshipped there last night;
> 
> knees bent, head bowed,  
> sipping holy water from the most ancient chalice,
> 
> and the flick of your finger on my nipples  
> sent a ringing through the cathedral domes of my breasts.
> 
> when you screamed god’s name and mine in the same breath,  
> it granted me divinity.

II. chronicle

> [1]
> 
> we are in your library when we see the curtain of tiny falling stars.  
> snow quietly collects outside, nature’s hand on your front door  
> whispering to me: _stay here._
> 
> i am in your pajamas, drawstring waist cinched to fit,  
> a too-big sweatshirt, thick wool socks. my hands hold  
> a glass of raspberry lambic, liquid ruby in the firelight.  
> a cherry cordial melts in my mouth around the words  
> i read, giggling, from sylvia plath: _i am vertical,  
>  but i would rather be horizontal._
> 
> [2]
> 
> you, too, are a little loose with your words, and  
> a volume of e.e. cummings dangles from your fingertips.
> 
> _the snow everywhere carefully descending,_ you say,  
> and i am wrapped in a blanket, naked,  
> listening to the words which aren’t your own.  
>  _your slightest look easily will unclose me._
> 
> “you have that much of a weakness for me?” i say,  
> and your eyes are velvet-dark like black petunias,  
> your eyes are still and serious and you look at me—  
> and i have never understood what it means to be unclosed  
> until now, until you say, with the weight of an oath,  
> “yes.”
> 
> [3]
> 
> you run a thoughtful finger  
> around the heart monitor adhered to my skin  
> and kiss the plastic  
> like it’s the signet ring of a priest.
> 
> you’ll be okay, you whisper,  
> i think for your own peace of mind  
> more than mine.
> 
> [4]
> 
> the books pile around us like snow  
> and we read to each other.
> 
> your tongue tastes the syllables  
> like the curves of a lover.
> 
> you have one finger resting between my folds  
> like they are pages of a book and you’ve only  
> paused your reading; the other hand holds  
> a leather-bound tome, asking _may i touch?_
> 
> and i recognize the poem. i recite— _how much?_  
>  _a lot,_ you say.  
>  _why not?_ i say.
> 
> and your finger slips inside.
> 
> i almost reach for the garcilaso de la vega.  
> i almost sing _amor de mi alma_ to you.  
> i almost—  
> but i remember just in time  
> that we’re lovers but we’re not in love,  
> not officially,  
> not yet.
> 
> [5]
> 
> you always  
> always  
> do to me  
> what spring does with the cherry trees.

III. satiated

> i am wrapped:  
> in flickering firelight,  
> in a cashmere blanket,  
> in your two strong arms.
> 
> i am full:  
> of ruby-throated intoxication,  
> of a lightness like helium,  
> of every drop of yourself you emptied into me.


	18. 18. a basic instinct [february 2]

18\. a basic instinct  
[february 2]

When you walked in to the office on Wednesday morning, you were feeling audacious.

You wore what, on the outside, appeared to be an office-appropriate outfit: a stretchy black pencil shirt with a white button-down. Underneath that skirt, you wore nothing.

Your first stop was Chris’ office. This semester, he had a class before you did, so you knew he was teaching. On his desk, he had two neat piles of books—a set for each class he taught. At this point, you’d known Chris for long enough to know that he’d never let a student touch his books, and you knew where he placed them when he lectured in the little hall, so despite the thrill you felt doing this, you also felt fairly safe. You withdrew his bookmarks, replacing them with nude and partially-clothed photos of yourself. He had loved your second Christmas gift to him, which had been a book of boudoir photos targeted specifically to his tastes. It had been Jocelyn’s idea; she convinced you it was perfect and even helped you brainstorm ideas. 

You’d since done a second session with the same photographer, completing a series where your face wouldn’t show in any of them. You knew he’d recognize you, though, not only by your body, but by what you wore in some of them: the red lingerie he’d given you at Christmas, the black satin robe you now kept at his house, the lacy open-back bodysuit he adored. Between the pages of _Lady Chatterley’s Lover,_ you slipped seven or eight photos: one of you sitting, spread-eagle, nothing but the blade of a hockey stick covering the area between your legs. Your head was tipped back as if in ecstasy. In the same book went a close-up of your folds, the stem of a rose carefully clasped between them. The last bookmark was replaced by a shot of your two glistening fingers pressed to half-parted red lips. He loved when you tasted yourself, and you knew the insinuation would drive him wild.

Then, you went off to the lecture hall, termed the “little hall” by faculty and staff alike, since it only held about sixty people. You got there early, since your plans depended upon you snagging the back seat in the aisle, where no chairs blocked his view of you. You settled in and hiked up your skirt—just a little. Just enough.

Ever the professional, he simply gave you a friendly wave when he entered the hall. He knew you were coming to his lecture today, but he was completely unaware of what you planned to pull. You returned the greeting, and then sent him a text message:

_excited to learn more about d.h. lawrence. he might even rise from the grave and support the obscenity laws for what i’m going to do to you this afternoon._

You sat demurely in your chair, legs crossed, and saw him visibly tense as he read your message. He looked up at you, but just as he did, a student walked in, and Chris greeted him.

As the little hall filled in, you saw that Chris’ students followed the same pattern as the students you’d taught in this hall last year. The back seats, normally the favored position, didn’t fill in—there was hardly any leg room in the cramped row. This was a good thing—you certainly didn’t want to get caught by any of the college students.

You settled in as Chris welcomed the group and started class. You did have a vague academic interest in the material—this wasn’t your wheelhouse, so to speak—but you were more interested in teasing the living hell out of him today.

As he spoke, you leaned forward, playing the part of the professionally-interested colleague, even though no one was looking at you. _Open the book,_ you willed him silently, _god damn it, I know you read from books during—_

The lecture hall was small enough for you to notice his gulp as he cracked it open and saw the first bookmark, something fairly innocuous, an overhead shot of you in that red lingerie and open satin robe.

 _You wait,_ you thought.

After he’d been through three photos—carefully placing each one in his briefcase as he went, you noticed—he dared to look up at you.

You smirked at him, with the red lips he loved, and uncrossed your legs—parting them _just_ enough to show him you were wearing nothing underneath your skirt—and re-crossed them on the other side.

His fingers tightened on the lectern and he cleared his throat, paused momentarily, and re-started his sentence. Watching him fight to maintain composure as he worked his way through the photos, as he glanced back at you knowing how exposed you were, was a thrill.

You gathered your things and filed out with the rest of the class, stopping briefly. “That was enlightening,” you said to Chris. “I really enjoy coming to your lectures when I have the time. I always seem to gain something new.”

His teeth were clenched and you knew he wanted to say a million things, but he couldn’t. “I appreciate it. It’s a great compliment to hear from the department chair.”

Chuckling to yourself, you went back to your office and closed the door. You knew exactly what was coming; your blinds were shut.

Precisely five minutes later, Chris came through your door and locked it behind him. “Cancel your class,” he demanded.

“Took you long enough.”

“I didn’t want to walk through the hall with an erection. I had to hide behind the lectern for the entire damn class.”

“Oops.”

He broke into a grin. “You are a _god damn problem,_ ” he said, and within seconds, he had you against the wall, hand up your skirt, kissing your neck.

You could hear the bustle of students in the hallway, of conversations between other professors, and your heart sped up. “We have to be quiet,” you whispered, hand in his hair. “Chris, we—”

“Mm-hmm,” he agreed, pulling at the buttons on your shirt, pushing up your bra to take a nipple between his teeth. You suppressed a moan.

He paused briefly to free himself from the constraints of his dress pants, hastily pulling himself out through the flap in his boxers; he took you by the waist and bent you over your own desk, and you spread your legs to allow him to enter you.

It was a good thing he was so big, you thought. You needed to avoid the slap of skin on skin, and you already knew that you could come without his pelvis making contact with you.

Your eyes rolled back when he slid in, and he exhaled against your neck, bent over you; his hands circled to your front and roamed there, until one found your clit and one found a nipple. As he fucked you—more slowly than you thought he’d have the self-control for—you gripped the edge of your desk, overwhelmed with the multiple sensations flooding your body at once, and you knew what he was doing. He had to keep a lid on it in class—you had to keep a lid on it now.

You turned your head, giving him a look, and he shrugged. “Only fair,” he mouthed, and you couldn’t even refute him.

He brought you to orgasm with the expert tip of his finger in minutes, then gripped your hips. You realized you weren’t going to be able to squirt like normal, not here—you’d have to control yourself, which didn’t prove easy, not when you were living out one of your wildest fantasies. _Wednesday,_ you thought wildly, _swimming day,_ and gestured toward your bag; your towel was there, and you briefly remembered the first night you’d done this, with Chris’ towel, in his office.

With the easy communication you’d developed, he understood immediately; it took him just a second to find the towel and put it at your feet. He nearly entered you right away, but thought better of it, likely realizing it wouldn’t do to teach in soiled slacks for the rest of the day, so he ditched his pants before resuming his place.

Something about the position, about him reaching around your front to play with you, about hearing the din in the hallway, had you ready to come almost immediately. You reminded yourself to stay quiet. Stay quiet. Stay—

Someone knocked at your door then, and your heart leapt into your throat, but you were so close to coming. Chris stilled for a moment but you shook your head wildly, biting your lip; _come on,_ you willed him.

He obeyed, continuing his quiet thrusts, his fingers still at your chest, and you reached climax as the knock at the door sounded again, your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes scrunched shut, your fingernails digging into the wood of your desktop.

Chris was breathing hard and you turned back just in time to see the face you’d already memorized; you felt the hot stream inside you and clenched around him as he came.

The noise in the hall was beginning to die down, and the knocking at your door had ceased. Face flushed, panting from the exhausting task of holding in all that noise, you cleaned up with your towel and collapsed in your office chair.

“It’s going to smell like sex in here,” Chris said matter-of-factly, as he pulled on his pants and re-fastened his belt.

You shrugged. “Not for long. Would you like some coffee?”

He did, and you opened up your window to let the room air out. The strong smell of freshly ground espresso filled the room.

After you’d handed him a cup, he reclined thoughtfully in his chair. “You know what?” he said, after a moment’s contemplation.  
  
“What?”

“You are the best severance package I could have dreamed of.”

You laughed. “Excuse me?”

A smile lit his face. “Early retirement.” He reached across the table for your hand. “It’s not so bad after all.”


	19. 19. text time [february 8]

  
  
  
  
  



	20. 20. and finally [february 14]

20\. and finally  
[february 14]

Your first inclination that this Valentine’s Day wouldn’t be like any other was the doorbell.

Still wrapped in your fuzzy robe and slippers, you peered through the peephole, not intending to answer it, until you saw two hands holding a vase of roses so large it obscured the delivery person’s face.

Befuddled, you swung open the door and accepted the delivery. A little card was attached.

_You deserve a special day. Eat breakfast, leave your makeup off, dress in comfy clothes, and head to Riverwoods Salon and Spa. Your first service is at 9:30. –C_

You dug your cell phone out of your pocket and called Jocelyn.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“There are four dozen roses in an enormous vase on my kitchen table right now,” came your answer.

You could practically see her face through the phone, wide-eyed and dramatic. “Oh. My. God. Girl, he’s going to finally, _finally,_ officially ask you out. Oh my God.”

“I see now why he was pushing me to take the day off. He’s been telling me for a week that I needed to take a mental health day, and that it was logical to take it on Valentine’s Day because a bunch of students probably wouldn’t show up. He’s sending me to the spa this morning. I received instructions on the card that came with my flowers.”

“GIRL. Is this going to be one of these like, cute little adventures where your boyfriend gives you clues to follow throughout the day and—”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you reminded her.

“He LITERALLY JUST SENT YOU FOUR DOZEN FUCKING ROSES.” You could picture her holding her phone out in front of her face and shouting into it, and you smiled. “If you are not officially dating by the end of the night, I will personally stand bare-ass naked in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge and recite the Declaration of Independence.”

“Why the Declaration of Independence?”

“WHY NOT? Can you please just go enjoy your grand sweeping romantic gesture? God damn. Go to the spa. He better have bought some good champagne for later. I expect a report at the end of all of this.”

You laughed. “Of course.”

“Bye,” she sang.

Your morning at Riverwoods extended into the afternoon. After hours of massage, aromatherapy baths, Vichy showers, a manicure/pedicure, and a facial, you were released by the spa concierge with another little envelope.

_Now that you’re relaxed, fill up on some good food. You have a reservation at 2:30. Have anything you want; my treat._

The reservation card within was for Stella et Luna, a restaurant you’d been dying to try; it was fairly expensive, so you hadn’t yet splurged, and Chris knew it. You felt bad blowing his money, so you ordered something small; when the server came out with your order, there were three other small plates with it. “The gentleman said you likely would not order all that you wanted,” she said, smiling. “He was kind enough to send a list of other things he thought you may like.”

As you surveyed the food, you couldn’t believe how spot on he was. You didn’t even remember mentioning your love of charcuterie boards, and yet there was one before you on the table. Taking an olive between your thumb and forefinger, you thanked the server graciously and tucked in to your lunch.

The bill came with a third envelope. _Try not to lose track of time while shopping. Dinner’s at my house at 7._

 _Five hours?_ you thought. _What could I possibly do with five—_

You opened the envelope-within-the-envelope and pulled out three gift cards: one to Barnes and Noble, one to Frederick’s of Hollywood, and one to Sephora. Each one had a fairly significant amount of money on it. You forgot, at times, how much Chris was worth; he didn’t live ostentatiously, which was actually one of the things you appreciated about him.

“Oh, Chris,” you said out loud, smiling. “You know my vices.”

You took out your phone and texted him. _This is ridiculous. You are blowing too much money on me._

A few moments later, on your way out to your car, your phone dinged. _I earned a ridiculous amount playing hockey. I get to spend it how I want, and I maintain you should have all of this today. Go buy highlighter or whatever you call it. :)_ _See you at 7._

You enjoyed a makeover at the Beauty Studio at Sephora, and spent your afternoon picking out makeup, books, and also some lingerie that you planned to wear this evening. By the time you drove to Chris’ house, your back seat was full of bags.

You pulled into his garage—you now had your opener programmed to open his garage—and when you stepped in the door, the smell of home cooking hit you, but you couldn’t place the scent.

When you walked into the dining room, you saw a steaming glass dish on the table, a layer of minced beef, a layer of corn, and a layer of peas, all topped with browned mashed potatoes. Another vase of roses sat at the center, flanked by two lit taper candles in sterling silver candlesticks. Next to that, a bottle of red wine glimmered in the flickering light.

Chris emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “You’re right on time.”

“Shepherd’s pie,” you said. “It’s my favorite. How did you know?”

He took a deep breath. “Months ago, you said you were looking to date a guy who loved cats, traveling, art, and can cook a mean shepherd’s pie. I fit the first three, but I had to learn the fourth.”

You just stared at him for a moment.

“Are you officially asking me out?” you asked, and you wanted to die as soon as you said it.

“God,” he sighed, “you’ve been thinking we were together this whole time, haven’t you? Damn it, I knew— or do you not want to—”

“No,” you interrupted, “I didn’t, I—didn’t know—”

“Oh. Oh, then—umm— so—” He sighed and sank into a chair. “Fuck, I’m awkward,” he said, and you laughed.

“Yes,” you said. “I mean, yes, I want to officially be with you.” A wide smile on your face, you went over to him and sat in his lap. “Also yes, you _are_ awkward. You are awkward as fuck. And I think it’s very endearing. I love it.”

He shook his head and buried his face in your chest, embarrassed. You kissed the top of his head and tugged him back. “Look at me, boyfriend.”

He grinned. “Okay, girlfriend. Although—I can’t call you that, can I?”

You sagged a little. “Right. Department head. But I mean, we only have to keep it a secret at work. I’m going to go get your card, so go ahead and text Mika. I’m sure he’s waiting to hear.”

Laughing, he pulled out his phone as you went to your bag. You’d bought two greeting cards this afternoon at Barnes and Noble, and spent a long time worrying over them with a slice of cheesecake in the café. Jocelyn had you convinced that he’d ask you out tonight, but you also wanted a backup plan in case he didn’t; so you wrote out a playful message on one card, _sans_ any reference to a romantic relationship, and slipped it in a white envelope. The other card, in a red envelope, contained a quote and a simple message— _I love having you in my life; I have never been so happy._ You took out the red envelope.

His phone buzzed. “And what does Mika have to say about it?” you asked, sitting down at your place at the table.

“About fucking time. Congratulations, bro,” he read aloud.

“I’m pretty sure that Mika and Jocelyn would be great friends,” you said thoughtfully, taking a sip of wine. “Although I’m pretty glad they haven’t been conspiring against us for the past six months.”

“Six months,” he mused. “I can’t believe we’ve known each other for six months.”

“And, let’s be honest, we were _de facto_ dating for how many of those months?”

“I’m going to say that started about the time we started spending the night at each other’s houses. So… about two or three?”

“One, at the very least. You brought me out to meet your parents for Christmas, for God’s sake.”

He shook his head. “We should have just made it official right there.”

You handed his card to him. “Well. Now we have. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

He tore open the envelope and read your message out loud. _“No one has ever stared more / tenderly or more fixedly after you… / I kiss you—across hundreds of / separating years.”_ A tender look in his own eyes, he set the card on the table. “She has words for everything.”

You nodded. “Appropriate, I thought.”

“I find myself believing in providence a lot more lately,” he said. “I’m about to get sentimental, but I didn’t think there was anything out in the world with the magnitude of goodness I needed to balance out the heartbreak of losing my life’s passion. And then you were in the office next to me.”

Tears prickled at your eyes. “It was your life, and you’re telling me that—” Your voice broke.

“Yeah. Losing that was worth it to find you.”

You got up from your chair and sat in his lap again, wrapping him up in a hug, completely overwhelmed with emotion. “I’m not happy you aren’t in the game anymore,” you said finally, your face buried in his curls, “but I am so overjoyed that we found each other.”

Eventually, you untangled yourself and the two of you dished out dinner and ate. The shepherd’s pie was delicious, and when you complimented Chris on his cooking, he admitted that he’d been making them for the past week, trying to find the best recipe, wanting to make sure he didn’t mess up the one he made for the “big night,” as he called it.

He had dessert, too, flourless chocolate cake—“it came from the bakery. I can cook, but I can’t bake,” he had said—but you decided to put that off until later.

After dinner, he disappeared for a few moments, leaving you to text Jocelyn to tell her that yes, he had asked you out, and no, there was no champagne. When he came back out and led you by the hand into his bedroom, where you’d been so many times before, it was lit with a half-halo of candles: pillars, tealights, and votives bathed the room in a soft glow. The roses from dinner now sat on the bedside table. You recognized the piano in the background, the same sparkling melody from the playlist you’d been listening to in his office the first time you slept together.

Somehow, as he pulled you close, it felt different. Making your relationship official—no longer something casual— had breathed something new into this dynamic. When he kissed your neck, you no longer wondered at his tenderness, you _knew_ it meant something. You’d always tried to communicate to him through your touches, and now you _knew_ the message was clear.

When he lifted your dress over your head, he smiled at the matching bralette and panties. “Those are new.”

“Someone gave me a gift card to a lingerie store.”

He ran his hands over the lace; you felt his warm touch through the rough texture. “I feel like it’s a shame to take them off so quickly.”

“No,” you said, drawing close to him. “I need your skin on mine.”

He removed his pants, keeping only his boxers on, and divested you of your new lingerie. Immediately, you pulled him close to you, and he went straight back to kissing your collarbone, your throat, your neck.

He enveloped your earlobe in his lips. “We have all night,” he whispered.

“Mm-hmm.” Your hand was in his hair.

“Can I do something to you?”

“You can do anything to me,” you told him, and you meant it; you trusted him completely.

“Turn on your stomach,” he said, kissing you behind the ear. “Get comfortable.”

Your immediate thought was _anal on Valentine’s Day, in a romantic candle-filled room? Unconventional, but I’m into it._ You heard the drawer open, but instead of withdrawing the bottle of lube, he held a pair of paintbrushes. _What—_

You watched as he poured a variety of paints into a little plastic palette. Then, brush and palette in hand, he straddled your thighs. You realized just then what he was going to do, and settled into your pillows as he pressed a single kiss to the small of your back before he used the wide brush to paint a long, luxurious streak from your tailbone all the way up your spine, stopping just before he reached the shoulder blades.

Never would you have considered body painting erotic, but with the sea of candles and the throaty alto voice weaving in and out of piano notes and Chris’ bare thighs against yours, it was. The paintbrush was like an extension of his finger: deliberate, gentle, precise. You wondered what he was creating back there.

The wide brush strokes gave way to little ones, and you noticed he’d switched brushes. Patiently, he filled in the top of his painting, from shoulder blade to neck to shoulder blade. The brush strokes were relaxing and tender, and you were lulled to complete contentment.

Eventually, he created two shapes, down where the waistband of your panties would have been if you’d been wearing any. “Finished,” he pronounced.

“What is it? I want to see.”

He fished his phone out of the drawer, snapped a picture, then laid flat on his stomach next to you.

On your back was a cherry tree with a solid trunk, overflowing with a waterfall of vibrant blossoms. At its base, two silhouettes stood, hand-in-hand.

“What spring does with the cherry trees,” you whispered, thinking about your reference to Neruda in the last poem you wrote about Chris.

“Your favorite poem, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” You reached for his hand. “Now should we let it dry? Or do we make a mess out of your sheets?”

“There are few things I love more than making a mess with you,” he said, grinning. “I have spare linens.”

He put his arm around you and ran three fingers down your back, smearing the browns and pinks and whites together, then cradled your cheek for a kiss, leaving paint on your cheekbone. You smiled against his lips and laced your fingers with his for a moment, then ran them through his hair, making him sigh, leaving a streak in his curls.

You expected him to put you on your back, but he sat up instead, ditching his boxers before crossing his legs; you settled on top of him in the lotus position, wrapping your legs around his hips, pressing your chest to his, enjoying every second of feeling how deeply he penetrated you.

“I feel so much closer to you here,” he said, his hands full of liquid bark and leaf and petal, depositing the remainder all over you: your sides, your shoulders, over the curve of your breasts. You loved this position as much as Chris did and leaned into his neck, kissing him softly as you slowly rode, up and down, up and down, rocking your hips, your breath catching every time you let your inner thighs hit his. His fingers moved in small circles, just as they always seemed to, but this time you knew they were creating a kaleidoscope of colors at the small of your back. You began to ride faster and faster and he caught you in his arms, hand up in your hair as you came, and he held you there for a moment while you caught your breath. Then, in one easy motion, he laid you on your back, never slipping out of you, and bent to kiss you.

Again, it wasn’t like you hadn’t held each other closely in bed before, but now that you were officially dating, it felt different. When he bent down and pressed his torso to yours, covering your collarbone in a line of kisses, holding you close to him, you knew those kisses meant something like love.

You didn’t think he’d held you this closely before, this tenderly; you melted into him, thinking you could do this forever— _there’s a chance,_ you thought briefly, but any other fleeting thoughts were erased by your impending orgasm and the way Chris’ eyes focused in on you as you came again, moaning his name, your fingers embedded in his back. He kissed you and slowed for the briefest of moments, running a hand through your hair, before continuing his motion.

When he did come, finally, your name sounded like a prayer on his lips, and you wondered what he’d been thinking this whole time—did it feel different to him, too?

Spent, exhausted, you cuddled up into his arms, paint in your hair. You didn’t look forward to the 5:30 a.m. alarm, but you knew what your morning would be: you and Chris in the shower, scrubbing acrylic smears from each other’s skin. Chris mixing up muesli while you make the morning coffee. Chris zipping up the back of your dress while you remind him to bring the book he needs today.

Domestic things. The things you’d been doing for a couple of months now.

 _Couple things,_ you could call them now, and fell asleep smiling inside at the thought.


	21. 21. under pressure [february 15]

21\. under pressure  
[february 15]

“God damn it,” you said, slamming the lid of your laptop shut, and let out a frustrated groan.

“Agreed.” Chris was staring at his own computer like he wanted to set it on fire. “What are you damning?”

“My publisher wanted the first ten chapters last week. I sent them five. They’re telling me they have lined up another expert to co-author the book if I don’t deliver on time.”

“Can they even do that?” he said, aghast.

“I didn’t think so?” You put your head in your hands. “I’m still waiting on Yuliya. There’s too much happening and they don’t care about the academics. They don’t care about the integrity of the research. They don’t give a good goddamn about Marina, they just want to make money. Can’t they just fucking sell pre-orders at the conference? I don’t want to put my name on something that’s half-finished, and I _don’t_ want to put my name on some _co-authored_ piece of shit when I didn’t even get to _collaborate on it—_ ”

Chris got up, crossed the room, and gave you a hug.

You took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You have every right to be upset,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault. What are _you_ damning?”

He went back to his desk and spun his own laptop around. The lead headline on US College Hockey Online read _Former Ranger Chris Kreider leads a new team to success._

“How about Kyle Vang leads them, with a record number of goals? How about some credit to the head coach, who is the actual leader? How about some focus on our goalie, who’s really stepped up lately?” He sighed. “This is exactly what I worried about; I don’t want this to be about me. I just want to be another guy behind the bench. They asked to interview me for this story, I declined and _told them why,_ and they ran the story anyway.”

“I feel very Taylor Swift saying this,” you cracked, “but in all seriousness, I feel like it’s important to be able to control your own narrative. It’s fucked up that they couldn’t respect your wish to not be central in this.”

“The team has really turned it around,” he said.  
  
“Well, and, be fair to yourself—you _have_ had a lot to do with that. The power play is clicking at what, twenty-two percent? That’s absolutely unreal, and you’re the one running it.”

“They’re the ones scoring the goals,” he argued. “I just plugged them into a system.”

“You are admirably humble, but sometimes you should take credit for what you do.”

A knock at the door interrupted your conversation, and Chris went to answer it.

“I’m looking for the department chair,” came the too-familiar voice, and you inwardly rolled your eyes. “I didn’t even bother checking her office; I figured I’d find her here.”

You were done even being professional with this asshole. “What do you want, Cody?”

“I’m here about my schedule request.”

“It’s interesting to me,” you said, “that you continue to ask me for favors such as afternoon classes and budget requests, while at the same time continuing to disparage me to colleagues and the dean, and continuing to make smart remarks while in the room with me. Obviously you haven’t yet taken my suggestion to audit that interpersonal communications class.”

Cody bristled. “A certain amount of professional integrity is to be expected by the department chair—”

“Which you didn’t give a damn about when you were still trying to finagle a date with me after my promotion had been announced last year.”

He looked gobsmacked; you’d never said anything of the sort in front of both Chris and him before. “I—” He paused, looking from you to Chris. “What’s that?” He stepped close to you, too close, and he reached out to touch your neck before you could back away.

Chris instantly got to his feet. “I don’t believe she wants you to touch her.”

“It’s paint,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Chris. “You have the same colors in your hair.”

“Ever been to a paint and wine night?” You were thinking fast, but your heart was in your throat. “We went last night, seeing as how both of us are single. A bottle in, and you end up with more paint on you than the canvas.”

“What’d you paint?” he demanded.

“Cherry trees,” you said in unison, and he continued to suspiciously consider both of you.

“Your schedule request,” you said coolly, “is pending. When I have made a decision, I will inform you via e-mail. Good night.”

You crumpled up a piece of paper and hurled it at the doorway after he’d left. “I hate that motherfucker SO MUCH.”

And then you burst into tears.

He came back to sit on the couch with you again. You’d held it together for so long, but something about that smug asshole marching into Chris’ office and reminding you that the thing which was giving you the greatest joy was also putting your career in jeopardy made you lose it. _Especially_ the day after you’d made it official.

Chris just held you quietly, stroking your hair. Finally, when the sobs had quieted, he asked the question. “Should we not be doing this?”

“Don’t you ever say that,” you spat, grabbing a tissue. “What we’re doing isn’t affecting a goddamn thing. I know what our professional relationship needs to be, and I will still act in the university’s best interests. Also, you’ve been spectacular in your first year here; it’s not like I’m going to retain a shitty professor because I’m in a relationship with him. He is the one creating an issue where there is none.”

“Part of your responsibility is to retain quality instructors,” he joked, trying to make you smile. “I’d say you’re going above and beyond to do that.”

His remark elicited a small smile from you.

“We have to be more careful, though,” you said.

“So, you shouldn’t show up to my lectures and flash me anymore.”

You laughed. “That was _once._ ”

He pulled you close and kissed the top of your head again. “You know… I don’t _need_ this job, either.”

“Chris, I’m not going to ask you to quit for me.”

“I’m just saying that if it comes down to it, I would.”

“Look.” You twisted around to face him. “Under no circumstances am I going to let you lose your job for me. You have talked so many times about how happy you are to be teaching, how happy you are to be coaching, and I am not going to let you ruin that.”

“I’ve also talked about how happy I am to be with you. I can teach or coach elsewhere.”

You put a finger to his lips. “Let’s not talk about it. I have a manuscript to work on. You have plays to draw up and lecture notes on Thoreau to write.”

“I want to stay together tonight,” he said, his fingers lightly tracing your arm. “I don’t need to sleep with you. I just want to be with you.”

An entire night spent in those arms sounded like exactly what you needed. “That sounds wonderful.”


	22. 22. walden, reimagined [february 22]

22\. walden, reimagined  
[february 22]  
  


When you opened your desk drawer on Tuesday morning, a small white box taped to an envelope was waiting for you. Used to Chris’ little surprises by now, you smiled and tore the envelope open.

_I wrote this last week. Maybe you’ll flush the present, but it was worth a shot. If we have to start being more careful, I thought maybe I could give you a way for me to be close to you._

Turning your attention to the little white box, you lifted its lid. On a bed of cotton sat a simple silver band. When you picked it up, you saw it was engraved, both on the outer band and on the inner.

 _We would have our books_ , it said on the outside. And on the inside: _and at night be warm in bed together._

You knew it was an Ernest Hemingway quote, and you thought nothing was more appropriate. Immediately, you tried it on; it fit best on your ring finger, so that’s where you kept it.

You went back to the letter to read his poem.

_Walden, Reimagined_

_We’ll go to the woods_

_because we wish to live deliberately:_

_to house our bursting hearts_

_in a space where that precious marrow of life_

_is shared by us,_

_nourished by our joy,_

_where parasites cannot steal it from our bones._

_We’ll live free of obligations_

_except the ones we declare to each other._

_You will help me grow_

_with the same care you give to your flowers,_

_and like the chamomile and lavender in your garden,_

_I will soothe and comfort you._

_We’ll reside in walls_

_built of books and trees and stones._

_We’ll listen to the meowing_

_of four cats at breakfast time,_

_the rustle of little animals_

_chasing each other through the brush,_

_the soft percussion of rain on spring evenings,_

_the splashes of waterfowl and fish on the pond,_

_and the song of nightingales and larks alike,_

_paying no heed to the distinction._

_We’ll tell our well-meaning family and friends_

_we are successful—_

_for the days and the nights we spend here_

_make us joyful._

There was a postscript, and you read it with a smile.

_I’m not as good with poetry as you are. God, wouldn’t it be wonderful to just escape, though? I know you’re going through a lot, and I know you’re stressed. Take deep breaths. I’m here for you. –C._


	23. 23. thoughts [march 12 / march 20]

23\. thoughts  
[march 12 + march 20]  
  
 ** _< chris>_**

March 12

My stomach’s in knots. Coach Quinn called me today. Their new assistant has been fired. Quinn said he saw what I’d been doing with our team, and he wants to give me a shot at an assistant coaching position in the NHL for the Rangers next year. Not that this isn’t an absolute dream come true—I could be back in the Garden, I could be coaching my team, I could be back with some of my friends—but what about everything that’s here? My new career, my new team, my new girlfriend? I can’t just walk away from all of that. He said I had a few months to think about it. It’s so goddamn tempting to just go back to everything I knew, everything I loved. But now there’s another set of things I love. I haven’t said anything about it to her yet; I just have to think for a while.

Speaking of my girlfriend, today in my drawer there was a ring box, and I knew immediately that she had reciprocated. So now I’m wearing a wide hammered silver band on my right ring finger with an inscription from a Garcilaso de la Vega sonnet: _Escrito está en mi alma vuestro gesto, y cuanto yo escrebir de vos deseo_. “Your every aspect is written on my soul, and how much more I desire to write,” she says. I fall in love with her a little bit more every single day.

Dr. Tulimak called me into her office and commended me for my performance so far this year, which thrilled me. She said she’s heard some very favorable reports from both students and other professors. She also asked some very pointed questions—“do you get along well with our department chair?” and others of that nature—which made me fairly uneasy. I feel like Cody is actively continuing on his crusade to expose our relationship. I’m so frustrated that one jilted asshole could ruin either our relationship, our careers, or both.

Next weekend is the conference tournament, and if we win it, we’ll get our berth to the dance. These boys deserve it. They’ve worked their asses off and I’m so proud of how they’ve turned it around in the second half of the season; I’d love to see them get a boat (or two, we can dream).

  
**_< you>_ ** ****

March 20—

I’m lying in bed writing this. Chris is asleep beside me (snoring, I might add. Luckily it’s not so loud that I need earplugs). I can’t sleep, but I’m just reflecting on the fact that this has become pretty routine; we’re always over at each other’s places. He spent four days at my house last week and just brought Dinah and Snowball with him; it took a while, but my girls seemed to get along with his. It made me think of the Walden poem he wrote for me.

Now that we’re together, all the on-the-verge-of-domestic stuff that we were doing before has just become… very domestic. We’re grocery shopping with each other in mind (would I have kept kale chips at my house before Chris? No). We’re making dinner together. We’re rarely doing work at the office any more—even though we both work better there, we know Cody’s going to be lurking if we’re there, so we power through our work at his house or mine.

It’s still irritating having to hide things. We’re spending weekends together in nearby towns just to be able to be out together, just to be able to hold hands when we walk through the street, just so we don’t have to invent excuses just in case we’re caught. I’ve honestly considered giving up the position of chair just so we’re free to be together, but I know he’d be furious if I took a step back in my career.

Chris’ team won their league tournament championship, which means they get an automatic bid to the NCAA tournament. Even with their amazing second half, they wouldn’t have gotten the bid without this win, so it was huge. I’m so proud of him and everything he’s done for that team. We definitely celebrated tonight ;)

I’m just really happy. I hope he’s feeling just as wonderful as I am.


	24. 24. victory lap [april 9]

24\. victory lap  
[april 9]

The scoreboard read 3-2.

The college hockey team, now the stars of a Cinderella story that had brought them from mediocrity in their conference to the championship game of the Frozen Four, was behind by one with three minutes left. Chris was behind the bench, his clipboard tightly seized in his fingers, gesturing wildly down the ice, pulling the goalie off the ice for an extra attacker.

Vang shot out onto the ice the second the goalie hit the bench, giving the second line a considerable boost of firepower. The fourth line had barely seen ice this period, and Chris was chewing his lip, his tongue darting out now and then, and you knew he was asking himself _did we tire the one and two lines out?_ It had been his primary worry on Thursday after they’d eked out a 2-1 win in the semifinals.

Your nails were ragged, but your index finger was still between your teeth as the clock hit 2:30 and the puck came bouncing down the ice, stopping just shy of an icing call. _Come on,_ you willed the skater, _bring it back up, bring it back up…_

2:00 left; a shot from the point rang off the post and the crowd’s audible reaction was split—half relieved, half in disbelief that the shot couldn’t have gone just a quarter-inch to the right and past the goalie. They regained possession, and you wanted to scream bloody murder when you saw the defenseman raise his stick up, knowing a slapshot would likely be wasted—

The red light went on, the buzzer sounded, and you leapt to your feet, the scream on your lips one of elation.

“I hate overtime,” you hollered, laughing, hugging the mom of the third-line center, “but I love it tonight!” You were sitting with a cluster of seven or eight families, all of whom had sons on the team. You had introduced yourself as simply a hockey aficionado who taught at the university, which wasn’t a lie, but you said nothing of your relationship with the interim assistant coach.

The clock read 1:29, and the head coach called for a timeout.

The arena was far too loud for you to hear him, but you could tell exactly what Chris was saying on the bench— _let’s win this motherfucker right now!_

 _So much for a measured approach,_ you thought, smiling inwardly, remembering as he’d tried to hash out his coaching philosophy one night.

The goalie returned to his net, and the five best players—whom they’d just rested with the short break—skated out to center ice. Mäkinen won the faceoff and sent the puck to Vang, who immediately turned on the afterburners and rocketed into the zone, but one of the opposing players, desperate to stop him, reached out with his stick and hooked him down, sending him flying onto the ice.

The ref threw an arm in the air.

“Holy shit,” you said under your breath, your eyes darting to the clock again; it read 0:52.

The power play, since Chris had taken it over, had become the team’s bread and butter. They were converting at a solid twenty percent since he’d switched up the system, which was absolutely unheard of. Now the most lethal power play in the country was taking the ice with fifty-two seconds left in the title game. You dared to hope that the game might not even make it to overtime.

Suddenly, you felt like the world was spinning, and you leaned forward, clutching the seatback in front of you, desperately trying not to fall over. Brayden Cardello’s dad saw you and put a hand on your shoulder. “Are you all right?”

His voice registered, but barely. You couldn’t form a response. All of your energy was focused on remaining upright. Then, just as quickly as it had come on, it vanished. You stood back up. “Fine, thanks– just a little lightheaded.”

Your heart was racing, your chest tight, and you vaguely wondered if you shouldn’t sit down, but the puck hit the ice and you put it out of your mind.

Mäkinen won the face-off and dropped it back to the defenseman—Cardello— at the point, who passed to his defensive partner on the right. He gave it back, then Cardello slid it over to Johnson, who fed it to Vang, who directed it right to Mäkinen—who shot it top shelf, right over the goalie’s left shoulder.

The crowd erupted, Moore’s mom threw her arms around you, and you saw Chris raising his arms in celebration on the bench.

For a moment, he locked eyes with you, and you just grinned wildly before he broke eye contact and rushed out onto the ice to celebrate with the team.

Later, when you were back at the hotel room, you snapped your laptop shut the moment you heard Chris’ key-card in the door.

You got to your feet and he lifted you into the air. You pressed your hands to either side of his face and kissed him hard. “I’m _so fucking proud of you,_ ” you gushed. His face was lit up, eyes shining, a fan of crinkles at each eye, his dimples defined and deep.

“I mean, they’re the ones who—”

You swatted him. “Chris Kreider, take some fucking credit for once in your life.”

He was still grinning. “Only because you’re telling me to.”

You smashed your lips into his again, your smile against his, your arms holding him like a vise. He carried you right to the bed, pulling your sweater from over your head, and you used his tie to pull him close, kissing him again, relishing the feel of his suit jacket against your bare skin.

It wasn’t long before that jacket was in a rumpled pile on the floor, along with his tie and shirt, and you were working at his belt as he flung your bra into a corner. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, and your body couldn’t keep up with the sensations; the soft caress at your neck, the possessive way he ran his hands up your sides, the flick of your nipples, the tug at your hair. Your eyes fluttered as his belt clattered to the ground and your fingers found the button on his slacks.

He kicked off his shoes and continued kissing you hungrily, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and even though you hadn’t been behind the bench, you had lived and died with each up and down of the game, so you had plenty of your own; he pulled your jeans and panties off together and then you straddled him. Your first instinct, of course, was to ease onto him and fuck him right there.

Then a devilish grin spread across your face. Your second idea was more fun.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re plotting.”

You took your time moving your right knee in between his legs, then slid your own legs apart, settling down so every bit of your wetness touched his thigh.

“Oh,” he whispered, looking up at you, and you started rocking back and forth.

His life no longer revolved wholly around fitness, but he was still as much of a gym rat as his schedule and his injury allowed; his thighs, lethal in his playing days, were still powerful. You’d played with this idea in your head for a long while, but you’d only first thought about it during your acquaintance when you swam with him in the pool in Bailey Hall that first night. You’d never have thought of riding someone’s thigh on your own—it had been your friend Amanda who’d given you the idea—but now, with your clit hitting every striation and ripple of the muscles in Chris’ thigh, you suddenly understood why this was a thing people did.

You let out a low moan and moved your hands from his shoulders to the wall to gain stability. Into it, he leaned forward, circling your waist with an arm, and gave attention to your neck, your collarbone, your throat. With both hands free to play, he was realizing he could do a lot to make you enjoy this even more.

With his fingers around your nipple, circling, flicking, playing, you were about to go wild. Instead, you found the self-control to stop.

You moved down, palms on the bed in place of your knees, and licked his thigh, from knee to hip.

You could sense his breath catching. You did it again, and again, until you’d cleaned him of every last drop, and then moved back up to kiss him. He clasped you at the back of the neck, holding you close to him until he could no longer taste your salt on your tongue, and let you go.

A smirk on your face, you settled on his thigh again.

“This is it,” he said. “This is how I die. You’re going to repeat this cycle and not let me come and I’m going to die.”

You chuckled in response, a low, throaty sound, and leaned in to drag your teeth along his earlobe. “Not tonight. But I like that idea.”

He groaned. “God. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He took your hand in his and guided it to his cock, pressing your fingers around it. “Feel how hard this makes me.”

“You like it.”

“This is hot as hell. I _love_ it.”

You resumed your position, your motion, and he let his hands continue to wander and play. You were so sensitive, so swollen, that it wasn’t long before you were coming all over him, trembling in his grip; exhausted, your face sank into his neck.

He kissed you and got up, leaving you to catch your breath; he returned with plenty of towels to protect the bed and turned you on your back.

You expected him to straddle your hips, but when he put his face between your thighs instead, you let out a little noise of protest.

He stopped immediately. “No?”

“I’m so sensitive,” you said in response. “I’ve never been able to come like this, one after the other… not this way…”

His tongue playfully flicked at your clit, and you twitched. “I’ve proven a lot of ‘nevers’ wrong.”

You smiled. “I guess you have.”

“Do you want to try?”

You nodded shyly, trusting him as always. His tongue, working as precisely and carefully as it always did, moved away from your clit and traced your lips first, softly, slowly, giving you a little more time to recover from the climax on his thigh. The movement was erotic yet comforting at the same time, and you sighed with contentment as you relaxed into the fluffy pillows. Your hand gravitated toward him, and you played idly with his hair as he continued his leisurely ministrations.

He touched you softly, letting his hands roam your body, as he gently sucked one of your folds into his mouth, running his tongue along the edge. Then he went to the other. Finally, his tongue brushed your clit—just barely—and he spent time exploring just below it, even pushing the tip of his tongue into your opening, and going just a little lower. Briefly, you wondered if he harbored a desire to go even further; you reminded yourself to ask him about it later.

Once he had decided you’d had enough time, he returned to your clit, pressing against it, and first circled it with the tip of his tongue, as if to warm up—then he began the movement that always elicited a good, deep moan from your throat. He was thorough with his motion, and he knew how to pace himself—start slowly, gradually build up, and for God’s sake, when you say don’t stop, _don’t stop._

With his near-omnipotent intuition, he could even tell when you were on the verge of being on the verge. His hands stopped roaming and found your nipples, providing extra stimulation.

 _“Chris,”_ you gasped, your eyes wide. “Oh my God. Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

It was sooner than usual, but his fingers and tongue were doing all the right things and you were in disbelief that this was really going to happen. “Yes,” you panted, “yes, please—oh—Chris—yes—I’m—yes—”

And you pushed yourself into a sitting position, back arched, eyes shut, your cry of ecstasy ringing off the walls.

“God,” you choked out, after you’d fallen back onto the bed. “You’re magical.”

“No. Just goal-oriented.”

You laughed. Once again, you expected him to straddle you, but once again, he had other plans. He picked you up—instinctively, you wrapped your tired legs around him—and he pressed your back to the wall. He slid into you easily, thanks to how wet you were, and your lower back hit the wall with his first thrust.

“Fuck,” you sighed, letting your forehead rest on his collarbone.

You loved the position, but you knew he loved it even more, and you held onto him and drank in the sounds of your name being moaned into your ear as he got close. You were so sensitive from your two clitoral orgasms that you knew you wouldn’t last thirty seconds.

You were coming before you knew it, a raspy moan on your lips, whimpering Chris’ name over and over into his ear until you were spent; it only served to turn him on more, and just as you thought you couldn’t hold yourself together any longer, he gripped you hard and came with such force that you could feel the stream shoot inside of you.

He let you down, and his cum ran down your inner thigh like a river as you stood. He watched the little white rivulet for a moment, then stepped forward, smeared it with two fingers, and held it to your lips. You met his eyes and sucked them clean.

“I am the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet,” he said to you a few minutes later, after you’d cleaned up and he was pulling the blankets over both of you.

“Mmm. Why’s that?” You had the room service menu in your hands, flipping through the laminated pages.

“I found a woman who’s supportive, intelligent, into hockey, and incredible in bed.”

You handed him the menu, pointing. “And who will encourage chicken wings and champagne in bed at 1 a.m.”

He grinned, picking up the bedside phone. “That too, babe.”


	25. 25. a public affair [april 13]

25\. a public affair  
[april 23]

You arrived at the Abrams Center in style. The spring gala was one of your favorite events. It was to benefit the various arts and literature publications on campus—the _Compass_ literary journal, the _Mosaic_ interdisciplinary and multicultural magazine, the university’s newspaper, the yearbook, the recordings released by the choir and orchestra, etcetera.

You’d been shopping with Jocelyn two weeks ago and together, you selected a beautiful navy satin charmeuse gown with a sweetheart neckline and a knee-length slit. It flattered you in all the right places. Just appropriate enough for a work function, you’d decided together, but just sexy enough to tease Chris a little. You had chosen your diamond studs, which you’d taken to wearing more often after Chris had admitted to you that for some reason, you wearing studs made him want to take your earlobe into his mouth. You’d discovered that morning that your heels, thanks to the ridiculous swelling in your feet, didn’t fit— _I need to get back to the doctor,_ you thought on your drive to the shoe store to pick up some flats. A phone call from your publisher blew the thought from your brain as you explained that you would yank your work and sue them if they attempted publishing a co-authored book without your permission. By the time you reached the counter with your purchase, you were steaming, having hung up mid-conversation.

Your mood, however, picked right up when you saw Chris walk through the door and immediately stop briefly at the sight of you. You were venting with two colleagues about the perils and pitfalls of publishing. Exercising some self-restraint, knowing you had to be careful in public, he went to browse the silent auction items.

Eventually, you were able to bow out of the conversation, and wandered over to the silent auction table yourself. “See anything you like?” you asked nonchalantly.

He checked to make sure no one was near. “You look _so good,_ ” he whispered.

You smiled and added your name and a bid to a basket of bath bombs and body oils. “I’m going to go have a little snack.”

“I wish I could say the same,” he quipped, and you laughed. He remained at the table while you headed over to see what this year’s selection of hors d’oeurves looked like.

You selected a crostini and struck up a conversation with the choir director, who was gearing up to take the choir overseas at the end of the school year.

“It will be stirring,” Carla said thoughtfully, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, “to perform the pieces in the cathedrals in which they were first sung.”

You pictured being in the choir, singing Bach’s _Alleluia Fugue_ in a Leipzig cathedral. Your heart beat faster thinking about it. “If only I was still a college student,” you said wistfully, and Carla smiled.

Cody joined the two of you, and you had to remind yourself to breathe. “Why do you want to be a student?”

“Carla’s taking the choir to Germany. They’re singing one of my all-time favorite pieces—it would be an incredible experience.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Religious music has no substance, for the most part.”

Carla regarded him with derision. “Most of our great classical works are religious in nature because that’s what the patrons paid for.”

“I just don’t think repeating ‘Alleluia’ over and over is art.”

You bristled. “Not everything is about the words.”

Amused, he looked you up and down; his eyes lingered for a moment at your neckline, and even the gaze felt violating. “I don’t think an English professor should be saying such things.”

You could tell Carla was about ten seconds away from launching into a heated music theory lecture, and though you would have enjoyed watching her destroy him, you also didn’t want the gala to be spoiled by an interdepartmental battle.

“Cody,” you said, “didn’t you want to meet some of the alumni who serve on the faculty grant committee? Ruth Howard just walked in. I can introduce you to her if you’d like.”

It turned out there was no need to go to her. A white-haired woman, ears dripping with gems, who carried herself like a queen, glided over to you and enfolded you in a hug. “It’s marvelous to see you! How’s the book coming along?”

You smiled graciously. “I’ve hit a snag, but it’s a good snag—some new letters have been uncovered which threw a wrench in my work. Authentication pending, we now have evidence that Marina Tsvetaeva and Anna Akhmatova were, at one point, lovers.”

Ruth, who was a published poet and a scholar of poetry in her own right, let out an audible gasp. “You’re kidding!”

You couldn’t suppress your grin, and then you remembered that Cody was standing next to you when he not-so-subtly cleared his throat. “Ruth, I’d like you to meet Cody Sutton. He’s a colleague of mine.”

He shook her hand and put on what he thought was a winning smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Howard.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “What do you teach?”

Chris, seeing your predicament, crossed the room and surveyed the hors d’oeurves table, clearly listening in on the conversation between Cody and Ruth.

“I’m not as well-versed in early American literature, Hawthorne and Cather and such. My interest in American literature—well, my passion— really starts with Fitzgerald and Hemingway and their contemporaries.”

Chris took a crostini and inserted himself seamlessly into the conversation. “And my esteemed colleague here—” he indicated you—“would certainly argue that Fitzgerald is the better of the two, while I would stand firmly in Hemingway’s camp.” He smiled and extended a hand to Ruth. “Chris Kreider.”

She shook it. “Ruth Howard. I’ve heard a great deal of good things about you. And I like you even more now that I know you’d stand in the Hemingway camp!” Her peal of laughter rang off the walls, and both you and Chris smiled, while Cody remained expressionless.

“I think,” Cody said, “that I’d prefer Faulkner to either.”

You raised an amused eyebrow. You knew Ruth had done her dissertation on writers of the Lost Generation. You knew Faulkner’s works and his life inside and out. You knew Cody had picked a name just to be contentious. And now you were going to embarrass the hell out of him in front of the one woman who could get him the grant he so dearly craved.

You began with a bold-faced lie. “Oh,” you said, “I don’t know much about Faulkner. He was a minimalist with his prose, then, like Hemingway?”

“Oh, yes. He helped to usher in that style of writing.”

Ruth opened her mouth. You knew she was going to call him out then and there—she was a big personality, and was never afraid to express herself bluntly. She was also rich and influential enough to enjoy few repercussions when she did step on toes. You had known her for years now, and you had a good enough rapport that when you met her and slightly shook your head, the tiniest of smirks on your face, she zipped her lip and continued to listen.

“I read _A Rose for Emily_ back in high school. Was that one of the ones he set in his fictional country? What’s the name of it… I can’t think of it…”

“Yes. It’s slipping my mind, too.”

“I suppose I appreciate him because he would have never given in to the siren call of Hollywood, like so many others.”

Cody nodded sagely. “I always thought Arthur Miller’s artistic integrity in film was never what it was in plays. He should have taken notes on Faulkner’s career—stay away from the silver screen.”

Ruth couldn’t take it anymore. “Faulkner worked for MGM and worked in the film industry for twenty years. Anyone who has _read_ Faulkner knows that it is Yoknapatawpha and, moreover, it is a _county._ He was the _exact opposite_ of Hemingway in terms of prose. Who are you? Where did you go to school?” She turned to you. “Is he qualified? My God, I’m phoning the dean when I get home. Is she here?” And, in her regal manner, she glided off in search of Judy.

Cody was red to the tips of his ears. “You absolute bitch.”

“Me?” you said, feigning innocence. “You’re the one who lied through your teeth. Don’t weigh in on things you know nothing about to try to impress people. When I taught high school, I’d tell my kids that this is a teachable moment.”

“Fucking bitch,” he spat again, before turning away and disappearing down the hallway.

“Wicked. Fucking. Amazing,” Chris said to you in a whisper, as you made your way away from the table.

You laughed out loud. “That’s the most Boston thing I’ve heard out of your mouth.”

“I’m not from Boston,” he protested, but he was smiling.

Shrugging, you brought your olive on a toothpick to your lips, met his eyes, and slowly dragged it off with your mouth.

“God damn you.”

“Oops.” You nudged him playfully. “You could drag me off to a room.”

“We’re supposed to be careful in public.”

“If Ruth Howard is off to tell Judy that Cody ought to be fired, anything he says about you and I isn’t going to hold any weight.”

“Don’t tempt me. I teach a class in this building. I have the key in my pocket.”

“If I were to visit your lecture,” you said, cognizant of the proximity of a passing group, “what room could I find you in?”

“313,” he replied.

“I’d love to listen in. I’ll catch up with you later, all right? I need to use the restroom.”

You headed in the direction of the restrooms, which also happened to be the direction of the staircase and elevators.

You didn’t have to wait long; you had taken the stairs, but you heard the soft _ding_ of the elevator and Chris came down the empty hallway with his keys. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he whispered, as you slipped into the room and shut the door, locking it behind you.

“What use is this dress if you don’t push it up and fuck me while I’m wearing it?” you said playfully. Despite there being no window in the door, and despite the fact that it was locked and dark, you still gravitated to the front corner of the room, where you could hide behind the long table at the front.

You knelt in front of him, unbuckling his belt, undoing his fly, and pulled his cock out. You pulled a tissue from your clutch and wiped your lipstick away before going down on him, knowing you needed to avoid a smeared face or stained clothes. He gripped the edge of the table and you could see his knuckles go pale as you got him all the way down your throat and kept him there, a move you were continuing to practice. You were much better at controlling your gag reflex now, and you enjoyed the feeling of his dick in your throat.

“We don’t have much time,” he whispered hoarsely.

He pushed the skirt of your dress up around your waist and bent you over the table; pushing your thong aside, he slid into you, and you gasped as he filled you up. “I don’t know what I like about this,” he said, one finger hooked around the fabric of your thong as it grazed his cock, “but it’s hot as hell.”

He let his slacks drop, not wanting to go back to the gala with wet pants that smelled of sex, and you got the satisfaction of feeling his skin against yours. This was the fourth time you’d fucked in semi-public; once, of course, was in your office, after you’d teased him during his lecture. You’d snuck away together in a park at night in the neighboring town, unable to wait to get back to the bed and breakfast you were staying at, and the third time was at the very top of the staircase in the library, where no one except the elevator repair company ever went.

Each time you were in semi-public, he fucked you in the same way, and you loved it—desperately. Fiercely. In short, blunt thrusts that lit up your entire body. In a way, he teased you to orgasm, just _barely_ hitting the spot, just barely long enough before he took the pressure away again.

This time was no different, and you were biting your lip and shaking before long, wishing for all the world you could let your scream rip through the empty room; he came with you, hands up your dress, emptying himself into you.

You realized then, as he stilled and caught his breath, that you were going to be a mess. “There’s nothing to clean up with,” you said desperately. Chris plucked his boxers from the floor and cleaned you up before wiping the cum off of himself. He wound them up in a tight little ball and deposited them in the trash can.

“God, I feel bad about that,” he said, looking into the otherwise-empty garbage can, and you caught up to him, laughing.

You slipped out of the room, holding hands, giggling like two college kids, and looked up to see Cody sitting on a bench at the end of the hallway on his phone. He was looking straight at you.

You were caught. There was no mistaking what had just happened. _Fuck it,_ you thought.

You let go of Chris’ hand and strode directly up to Cody. “Yes,” you said, answering his unspoken question. “For months now. And my God, he’s the best that’s ever been inside of me.” You marched right past him and down the staircase, leaving him speechless.

Cody didn’t follow you, and you and Chris stopped together on the landing just before the first floor.

Chris let out a breath. “So, that’s happened.”

“Yup.”

“What happens now?”

You reached up to cup his face. “As long as I’m with you? Truthfully, I don’t give a single fuck.” You kissed him, re-applied your lipstick, and descended the stairs alone.


	26. 26. wrecking ball [april 15]

26\. wrecking ball  
[april 25]

Monday morning found you sitting at your computer, reading the same e-mail for the twentieth time, when Chris walked in, a smile on his face.

“The athletic director wants to keep me. They want to hire me as the assistant coach. I’d teach part-time and coach part-time. The Rangers actually want me back, too, behind the bench this time, but I’ll stay here if—” Immediately, he saw your expression. “What’s wrong?”

You spun your laptop around so he could read the e-mail.

_Good morning—_

_It has come to my attention that you have been carrying on a relationship with a professor in your department. Photographic proof was presented to me of the two of you in the upstairs hallway in Abrams Center, holding hands, allegedly leaving a classroom together. As you know, relationships between the head of a department and any professor in her department are not allowed as per university policy. I have attached a copy of the policy with the relevant portion highlighted._

_I do want to notify you that I’ll now have to open an official investigation._

_My hope is that you will re-evaluate the nature of your relationship wih Chris, if it is indeed what it seems, and make a decision that will enable me to leave you in your current position as department head. You are a brilliant woman with an incredible mind and excellent leadership skills; I’d hate to see you throw away your position and hamper your career for a dalliance._

_—Judy_

“A ‘dalliance,’ she says.” You were upset by many things in the letter, but that one was a sticking point. “This isn’t a ‘dalliance.’ I wonder if she’d be more understanding if I told her it was a relationship, not a fling.”

He came around your desk to give you a hug. “I doubt it.” Kissing the top of your head, he paused before asking his question. “Do you still not give a fuck?”

You sighed heavily. “I do. I don’t want to care, but I do. I certainly don’t care enough to stop our ‘dalliance.’” You turned and smiled. “Whose house are we sleeping at tonight?”

“You may as well just move in,” he said offhandedly, and you raised an eyebrow. “Yes. That may be a conversation we should have.”

“After three months?”

“Technically three. We’ve already agreed it’s really more like five. And I don’t think we’ve spent a night apart in the last three weeks. I don’t want to pressure you. But if the cat’s out of the bag about us—” He shrugged, as if to say _why not try?_

 _Neither of us has even said “I love you” yet,_ you thought. _I wonder how many times we’ve meant it._ “Sounds like a good topic for dinner. At your house?”

“Okay. I’ll see you tonight.”


	27. 27. text time [april 29]

  
  
  
  



	28. 28. when the sky falls, we face it together [may 2]

28\. when the sky falls, we face it together  
[may 2]

The first rays of morning sunlight filtered through your window when Chris entered your office. You were there far earlier than you usually were, packing up the things you knew you’d need to continue your work on your manuscript. Technically, you weren’t banned from campus, but you didn’t really feel like being there.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” You set a stack of papers on your desk, deciding to address the elephant in the room immediately. “You have been off this whole weekend. What’s going on?”

“This,” Chris said. “You’re packing up your work to go home. You’ve been suspended from your job because of me.”

“No. I’ve been suspended because of _us._ I knew the consequences going in. I decided it was worth it.”

“I came here this morning to tell you that Coach Quinn offered me an assistant coaching position with the Rangers.”

You gaped at him. “I—I don’t know what to say. That’s an amazing opportunity.”

“I wasn’t going to take it. Not until you got suspended over our relationship. But I can easily solve the problem. If we break up and I quit and go back to New York to coach, you can stay here, doing what you love.”

“Easily? Breaking up with me is easy?”

“God, no,” Chris stuttered, regretting the words instantly. “I didn’t mean that. You know that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Fuck, you’re awkward,” you said, with the tiniest smile.

“I really shouldn’t be trusted with words.” He slid his hands into his pockets, uncomfortable. “You know I never want to let you go. I love what we have, and I feel like it could be something… something lasting. But I can’t be selfish and keep you if it’s going to cost you your life’s work.”

You stared him down. “Chris, I don’t need your misguided attempt at saving me. I appreciate the sentiment. Really, I do. You don’t want me to sacrifice my career for you. But at the end of the day, I get to make that choice, and I would choose to do this any day. Not to brag, but with my resume, I don’t need to stay here. There are a lot of universities that would hire me in an instant.”

“But you love it here,” Chris said, closing the gap between you, taking your hands. “I have full faith that any university in the world would hire you. But you wouldn’t love it like you love it here.”

“And if I stay at the university I love, I’d end up settling for a man I love a lot less.”

He paused, and you realized what you’d said. You let it hang in the air, waiting for his response.

“All I want is for you to be happy,” he said. “I support you, whatever your decision is.”

You squeezed his hands. “It’s like that excerpt from Marina’s diary we were looking at last week, I suppose. Love is like poetry. ‘There’s a certain innate measure of flesh: less is impossible.’ What is this worth? How much of myself am I willing to give? You once told me it was worth it to exchange your life’s passion, hockey, to find me and pursue a secondary passion. I’m telling you the same thing. You want me to be happy? I love you, Chris. Let me be suspended and stay with you.”

All the air went out of his lungs, and he wrapped you in his arms. “Jesus. Do you know how relieved I am? Walking in here this morning was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I love you. I love you _so much._ I don’t _ever_ want to lose you.”

“We could go to Boston,” you said. “Teach at two separate colleges. You could go back and teach at your alma mater.”

“I could never be with a BU woman,” he warned you playfully, and you laughed. “Move somewhere together, huh?”

“If we’re moving in together, who cares where we end up?”

He kissed you on top of your head. “Maybe you wouldn’t even need to teach if you didn’t want to. Maybe you could just write.”

You closed your eyes, leaning your head against his chest, allowing yourself—for one peaceful moment—to envision a future with Chris. Mornings at a house on the Atlantic coast, four cats chasing each other up and down the stairs, a cup of coffee on your desk as you worked on your latest manuscript, Chris puttering in the kitchen, making breakfast.

The flutter in your chest stopped your reverie, and you let him hold you a moment longer, just until the world stopped spinning.

When you felt like you could stand on your own again, you separated from his arms with a huge sigh.

“Time to face the music?” he asked.

You inhaled, a long, slow breath. “Yup. This ought to be good.”

The two of you walked down the hall and entered Judy’s office together. Cody was already there, notebook in hand, looking smug. You wanted to break his coffee mug against his nose.

“I know there is some tension in this room,” Judy began, “so I’d like to begin by urging us all to put aside any personal business and remain professional. We are here to talk about the transition of classes for the final two weeks of school.”

“There’s nothing on Faulkner, is there?” Chris said.

You couldn’t believe his audacity; you almost laughed. Judy’s mouth was a thin line. “Dr. Kreider, I am aware of the strengths and weaknesses of our faculty.”

You cleared your throat. “I’d like to propose that Dr. Sutton take my Intro to Russian Literature course, and for Dr. Kreider to—”

“Oh, spare us the pretense,” Cody spat. “We all know you and _Dr. Kreider_ are on a first-name basis.”

You looked helplessly at Judy. It seemed that she was using every ounce of willpower she possessed to stay calm. “Dr. Sutton, please.”

“I really don’t know why I can’t just finish out the year,” you said, already exasperated.

Judy gave you an apologetic look. “University policy—or else, trust me, you’d still be teaching.”

“Not that she was doing much anyway—”

She stood, but Chris was already out of his chair. “Are we going to do this? If we’re cutting out the pretense, let’s lay it out on the line. We are here because you were pissed off that she didn’t want to date you, and you’ve spent the entire year trying to ruin her for it. You are a petulant, chauvinistic, small-minded man, and just as Ruth Howard said at the gala, highly unqualified to be here. I sat with our colleague here while she cried over losing her students.”

Judy cast her gaze downwards. You noticed her twist a pencil in her hands.

“I sat with her while she decided you should get the classes which needed the least guidance, and the one class which you have a fair amount of knowledge in. You do the least amount of work possible, while she puts her heart and soul into her research, her writing, and her instruction. You look for the path of least resistance while she chooses challenges. You are not worth the dirt on her shoes. And here you sit, smug because you have robbed the students of this university of their incredibly qualified and passionate instructor. You are a piece of shit.”

“I don’t have to take this,” Cody said, getting to his feet.

“Sit down,” Judy instructed, her voice stone cold.

He did.

“Since you have all been so bold,” she began, “let me join in. If there was no policy against this relationship, I wouldn’t have taken action against it. It seems to have caused no disruption until you—” she looked pointedly at Cody— “decided to make it one.” She chose her next words carefully. “It is interesting to me that your allegations are in regard to unprofessional behavior and a romantic relationship becoming a distraction in the workplace. To me, it seems that the only one being unprofessional and distracted by this relationship, Dr. Sutton, is—ironically—you.”

“I—”

She shook her head, indicating he was not welcome to speak. “I would tread carefully if I were you. Realize, Dr. Sutton, that should she be reinstated, you will still report directly to her. I cannot imagine your evaluation will be favorable.”

You stared at her. _Did she really just threaten him? Did she genuinely authorize that?_

“You’ll teach the classes she’d like you to teach. I trust she will communicate that to both of you. You will follow her instructions to the letter. End of discussion. Dismissed.”

You weren’t used to her ending conversations in such a curt manner, but you imagined she was fairly fed up with the whole situation. Chris and Cody left promptly, but you stayed behind for a moment. “Judy,” you said, as soon as the door was closed, “I’m sorry for putting you through all of this.”

She sighed, folded her glasses, and rubbed her face. “Why are you doing this in the first place?”

You remembered her letter. “It’s not just a dalliance. I’ve been out to Massachusetts over the holidays to meet his family. We’re talking about moving in together. I never intended it to happen, but I’m in love with him. It’s killing us both to have to choose; he was ready to let me go to allow me to save my career, but I wouldn’t let it happen.”

“So you’re serious about each other.”

“We are.”

She tapped the end of her glasses against her lips. “Let me make a few phone calls. There may be a way we can salvage our situation here.”

You could have kissed her. “You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

When you walked out the door, it was to see Chris and Cody standing inches from each other. “You have no right—” Cody was saying, but you interrupted him, taking Chris’ arm. “C’mon, _darling_ ,” you said, pointedly exaggerating the term of endearment for Cody’s benefit. “Let’s go home.”


	29. 29. god is in the rain [may 7]

29\. god is in the rain  
[may 7]

Curled up in Chris’ library, you were incredibly comfortable. You’d been staying at his place since the two of you had walked out of Judy’s office arm-in-arm, which had further fueled talk on campus. You were thoroughly enjoying your first foray into living with him, and your cats were miraculously getting along. Pearl slept on the back of the couch behind you; Snowball was pressed up against your side. It was the type of day you loved, rainy and quiet, and if you had it your way, you’d be reading a good book, writing poetry, or you’d be in bed with Chris. Instead, you had your laptop on your lap, typing feverishly on your manuscript.

For a moment, you stared at the wet gray world outside. _Rebirth,_ you thought automatically, thinking about the symbolic nature of rain. _A new life,_ you thought. _F. Scott Fitzgerald said that “life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” That’s when Chris walked into my life—but maybe spring is going to bring new life, too._ You still bore the weight of the year’s stresses, but even though you were inside and bone-dry, you felt like the torrential rains outside were washing away layers and layers of the old, making way for the new. You still didn’t know what the “new” would involve. You did know that it was going to involve the man lying flat on his stomach in front of the fireplace _sans_ shirt, the end of a pen in his mouth as he read, scribbling notes in the margins and underlining as he went. You tried not to let your eyes stray too many times, but it was proving a little difficult. For the last twenty minutes, you’d been kicking around the idea of having a quickie on the floor just to get it out of your system.

An e-mail notification popped up; it was Sofia, your graduate teaching assistant from last year. The subject read: _Urgent message regarding Dr. Sutton._

Immediately, you switched windows and opened the message.

_Good afternoon—I hope you’re all right. I just had lunch with my younger sister Paola, and I told her about what happened with you, Dr. Sutton, and Dr. Kreider. She went quiet and then told me that Dr. Sutton made advances toward her this year, and that he’s been exchanging explicit texts with one of her sorority sisters, Lauren. Both Paola and Lauren are his students._

_Paola said she’s going to ask Lauren if she still has the texts. Maybe it won’t help your situation, but I’ve never liked him, and I’d love to see him gone for what he did to you._

_Talk later. I’m excited to read your book when it comes out. – Sofia_

“That SON OF A BITCH!” you yelled, shattering the peaceful silence, and both Pearl and Snowball bolted.

Chris looked up. “What? Who?”

“Cody,” you said, through clenched teeth, “has been sexting with one of his students.”

He snapped the book shut. “You have to be kidding me. And he has the balls to lecture us about our ‘inappropriate relationship.’”

“My grad assistant from last year might have the receipts,” you said, opening a new e-mail, “and you can bet I’m going straight to Judy if she does.” You paused. “Is that my book?”

He looked down, at the book he’d been reading and writing in for a solid two hours now, and looked guiltily back at you. “Oops. I’m sorry, I forgot it wasn’t mine—I rarely _borrow_ books, I always buy them, so I forgot… I’ll buy you a new copy. It’s just—it’s so good, you were right, there are so many different layers—sorry. I should have grabbed Post-Its. I’m glad you lent it to me though.”

You couldn’t help but smile. You stretched out. “How about you make me a cup of chamomile tea and then come rub my feet instead? They’re so angry.”

“Of course.” He shooed Arwen away, who was lying across his calves, and got up.

Meanwhile, you shut your laptop and opened your notebook, feeling the urge to scribble a poem.

_you read hemingway and it turns my stomach._

_but i like when i find you devouring my books–_

_i liked the time i found you curled up with my copy of the poisonwood bible_

_and you stuttered apologies for the marked and highlighted pages,_

_for the notes in the margins,_

_as you explained you had become engrossed in the story_

_and forgot it wasn’t your own copy after all._

_i like when you talk about barthes and foucault_

_and try on literary theory like glasses:_

_horn-rimmed new criticism,_

_nice round reader-response theory._

_i like when you touch me_

_as if i were the delicate curve of sylvia plath’s bell jar,_

_as if you know that i am at once suffocating under pressure and_

_suffocating myself,_

_as if you know that all i need sometimes_

_is the singing of your fingers on the glass_

_to give me harmony_

_and air._

_i like when you pick up the poetry collection i bought at the bookstore down the street_

_and translate marina tsvetaeva’s verse back to its original tongue._

_and you never say it in english, but я люблю тебя_

_has crossed your lips, dangerously,_

_before you started teaching me russian,_

_before you found out I knew enough of the language_

_to translate_

_that._

You heard him on the stairs, tore the page from the notebook, and tucked it in the pocket of the jacket that hung over the back of the office chair before he reappeared in the office. You’d never told him the last part: that you recognized his premature _I love you_ in Russian, even though he was just quoting a poem, back on that cold November day that you first slept together on the floor of his office. You imagined that he’d turn a delightful shade of pink when he realized that you’d known all this time.

He presented you with a steaming cup of tea, and you accepted it gratefully, sipping at the hot liquid while he joined you on the couch. You presented him with your feet. “Gently,” you said, leaning back. “I’m sore as hell, but this has always helped the swelling go down.”

He touched your left foot tenderly. “You’re _so_ swollen,” he said, and he couldn’t hide the note of fear in his voice as he started to massage your arch.

“Yeah. It’s a good thing I’m not teaching. I don’t know if I could fit in anything but my house slippers right now, if I’m honest.”

“They said your heart was all right.”

“Yeah…”

“How’s your chest?”

“Tight. It hurts to breathe. It’s just stress,” you said, moving to return to your work, setting your teacup on the end table. “This deadline…”

He let go of your foot and came closer to you, gently setting your laptop aside. “You’re out of breath all the time, you’re swollen, your chest hurts, your heart rate is up. I don’t think it’s stress, babe. I think we need to go to the hospital.”

You traced the scar on his chest, and your heart beat wildly as you began to understand what he suspected. It felt like someone had set an anvil on your chest; you felt unbearably lightheaded and reached out to hold on to him, needing to steady yourself. Suddenly, the world grew dark and the rain sounded hollow. A thunderclap shook the walls.

You thought desperately: _rain is birth, not death. Thunder— thunder is wrath—_

You thought, briefly, about a line from a movie: _God is in the rain._

You thought you said his name.


	30. 30. clarity

30\. clarity  
[may 8]

Still fuzzy from dreaming, you stretched.

You heard a faint beeping from somewhere. “Chris,” you mumbled sleepily. “Alarm.”

Then, voices—Chris, you recognized, talking in low tones to someone. Who would be there? You forced your eyes open and were instantly hit with bright fluorescent light. You shut your eyes again.

… _will be in soon,_ you heard the other voice saying, a woman’s voice. You opened your eyes again. Your eyes were still glazed from sleep, but you could see that you were in a hospital room. “Chris?”

He and the nurse he was talking with turned at once.

“Hey,” he said softly, coming to sit in the chair pulled up next to your bed. He took your hand, careful not to touch the IV in the back of it. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know. Okay, I guess. What am I doing here?”

The nurse smiled at you from the foot of the bed. “Two blood clots. You came in just in time. We’ve got you on blood thinners and we’ll keep you here for a little while longer to keep our eye on you. It’s a good thing your husband recognized the symptoms.” She patted your foot, which was under a blanket. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”

As soon as she was out of the room, you looked at Chris. “My husband?”

“It was the only way they’d let me stay with you,” he explained. “And I wasn’t leaving. Plus, this ring you gave me looks an awful lot like a wedding band; it was easy to be convincing.” He still hadn’t let go of your hand. “I was really scared there for a minute.”

Your phone buzzed; you saw it on the table, but you ignored it. “Where were the clots?”

“One was in your lung.”

You knew what that meant. It had been, and was potentially still, a life-threatening situation.

He took a long breath. “This is the sort of happenstance that makes you re-evaluate everything. It makes you figure out what your real priorities are. I sat waiting while they took you for imaging, and one thing became inescapably clear to me.”

“What’s that?”

“Over the last nine months, you have become the most important part of my life. It’s entirely uncharacteristic of me to make decisions based solely on emotion, but this has also been on my mind for a little while now. I…”

You were a little weak, but you pushed yourself up a little, wanting to see him more clearly.

“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall,” he said, quoting Fitzgerald, and you vaguely remembered that same quote floating through your brain just yesterday—yesterday? Time was fuzzy. “It started all over for me again in the fall when I met you. I’ll be honest, I thought I was going to be one of those bachelor-for-life types. I liked my solitude and I’m—well, you know I’m awkward.”

You smiled. “You know I like it.”

“And then there was you. I just—I don’t know how to say it in any other way. I can envision myself spending the rest of my life with you.”

You were speechless. “Is this—are you proposing to me?”

“I don’t want you to answer a proposal in a hospital room while you’re still reeling from a major health issue,” he said. “Can we talk about it, though, when we’re out of here?”

“Yes. I don’t know that there will need to be much of a conversation, though.” You still felt weak, but you were grinning as much as your body would allow.

“My mom was right. Keeper.” He leaned in and kissed your forehead. “So, I have a question for you.”

Your phone buzzed again; you paid it no mind. “Mmm. What’s that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you spoke Russian?”

You raised an eyebrow, confused, until he pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket: your poem. “I know enough Russian to pass an Intro to Russian class with like, a B,” you said. “Not enough to translate, which is what we were talking about, so it was really inconsequential.”

He was blushing. “So you heard me sneak in that ‘I love you’ before we’d even slept together.”

“And you found out I had a thing for you before we met. I’d say we’re even.”

“Fair,” he said, laughing. “Well, now I’ll say it in English. I’ll say it a billion times. I love you.”

“I love you.”

Your phone buzzed again. “You have a ton of calls and texts,” Chris told you. “Something’s going on.”

You reached for your phone; your e-mail was the first thing to pop up. The first one was from Judy.

_Good afternoon,_

_First, I’m sorry to hear about your health emergency. Please take good care of yourself._

_Second, I have received permission to act as Chris’ direct supervisor so that your relationship may continue. The powers that be thankfully listened when I assured them that all other decisions you make will be done in the best interest of the university and with no bias. You are hereby officially reinstated to your position as department chair._

_Third, it has come to my attention that Dr. Sutton has been carrying on relationships of an inappropriate nature with students. It is, of course, within my purview to take care of the situation. As you are his direct supervisor, however, and I understand you are in possession of the evidence, I thought you may want to conduct the investigation and mete out any necessary consequences._

_I am glad to have this business past us and I look forward to seeing you back on campus when you are healthy._

_Take care,_

_Judy_

“I’m back,” you told Chris. “I’m reinstated. Judy’s your supervisor now.”

“You’re no longer chair?” Frown lines creased his forehead.

You simply smiled and handed him your phone.

“Aha,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving upward as he read. “You know, I like her more and more all the time.”

He handed your phone back, and you scrolled through to see that not only had Sofia sent you the texts between Cody and Lauren, she had taken it upon herself to include a statement from Paola and screencaps of texts between Cody and another student. She’d censored the nude images of the student to protect her privacy—“and I’ve censored Dr. Sutton’s to protect your eyes,” she’d written, which made you laugh.

You set your phone aside. “So, Cody’s gone. We can teach in the same department and continue our dalliance.” He laughed. “So what do we want to do?”

“Do you want to keep teaching?”

“I mean—I don’t mind teaching… but…”

“But you love to write. How much did your teaching get in the way of your work on Tsvetaeva? How many poems have you written lately?”

“Not many,” you admitted. “It is just a lot to do.”

“If I take the Rangers coaching job—which, by the way, would not have been offered to me without you encouraging me to take the coaching job here this year— quit yours. You can come with me on the road—we won’t have to be apart. You can focus on your writing full-time. We can travel together in the summers. I’ll make you shepherd’s pie while you’re writing a book on Fitzgerald. We can have everything we love.”

A week ago, you had pictured exactly this; now, Chris was putting it into words, asking if you wanted to make it come true.

“Okay. New York it is. Let’s have a summer house on the ocean,” you said, and he smiled.

–-

When you were released from the hospital, Chris drove you back to his house in your car. He parked it in the driveway; there was no need to hide it in the garage any longer.

You were instantly swarmed by cats. Pearl ran to Chris, and Snowball came straight to you; it was as if all four cats claimed you as their humans equally.

When you went to bed, you cuddled up in Chris’ waiting arms, and laid your cheek on his chest. You thought of everything to come. Soon, you’d pack up your houses and make decisions like which set of dishes you should keep? What décor would make it to your new place in New York? Next Christmas, you’d be back at Dave and Kathy’s, and it would be your job to hide the Christmas pickle in the tree. You’d travel together, and certainly shed tears at more literary landmarks—you’d find a way, you thought, to bring Chris to Cuba so he could meet Hemingway’s cats at Finca Vigía. You’d be in the stands for every Rangers game while he coached. Certainly, a string of hotel rooms would play witness to more incredible nights. And there was a wedding to plan. You already knew you were going to wear the Tsvetaeva necklace he’d given you.

 _And we’ll have our books,_ you thought, twirling your ring. _And right now, at night, we are warm in bed together._

Chris was asleep, his breathing heavy, his fingers twitching where he touched your arm.

“Я люблю тебя,” you whispered. “And I always will.”


	31. 31. endings and beginnings [may 26]

31\. endings and beginnings   
[may 26]

At a long table sat you, Judy, and Judy’s boss. You wore red lipstick and a ring on your left ring finger. Your legs were crossed; beside your chair was Chris’ briefcase, which you had borrowed for theatrics.

On the other side of the table, twisting his hands in his lap, sat Cody. He was sweating. You had purposely turned the heat up in the room before his arrival, knowing he’d be sitting in that chair in a full suit.

“Dr. Sutton,” Judy said, “allegations have been brought against you that you have been pursuing inappropriate relationships with students.”

“That is not true,” he replied. “It seems to me that someone has spun a tale to discredit me.” He looked pointedly at you; you yawned and examined a fingernail.

“Have you ever had a romantic or sexual relationship with a student under your tutelage?”

“No.”

Judy turned to you. You were ready to make a great show of this. Each movement was deliberate, from lifting the briefcase, to slowly thumbing through the files inside to find the string-tie portfolio, to placing the briefcase back beside you.

He was like an ant under the magnifying glass of your eyes.

With great relish, you sat forward, placed the folder on the table, and slowly unwound the string. You could see the glisten of sweat on his skin. He shifted in his chair and scratched the back of his neck, then shifted again.

You did not break eye contact with him as you opened the folder. On top was a printout of the e-mail from Sofia with the screenshots of Cody and Paola’s e-mail conversation.

You began to read. “Message to Paola Díaz from Cody Sutton: Good afternoon, Paola. I enjoyed our chat yesterday. I thought you might like to meet outside of office hours sometime for coffee; I’d like to hear more about your idea. I was hoping we could have a less formal situation because I’d like to get to know you more as a person and possibly as a partner, if you catch my meaning.”

He sat up a little straighter. “Okay, but read on.”

“Message to Cody Sutton from Paola Díaz: Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got a girlfriend and we’ve been together for some time. I’d still like to talk about that idea during office hours if you really are interested.”

“Okay,” Cody said, “but clearly she rejected me, and the rest of that e-mail chain is scheduling a time to come for office hours. Done. Okay, maybe asking her out was wrong, but I did not have an inappropriate relationship with a student.”

“You did not have an inappropriate relationship with _that_ student,” you corrected him, then used one long, tapered finger with its beautifully manicured red nail to slide the top page aside.

He was greeted with a screenshot of his texts with Lauren. His lips formed a thin line and he shifted again in his chair. He loosened his tie. You watched him calmly. He shifted another time.

“Please read them.” You sat back in your chair.

He looked like the wind had been knocked out of him. His face was growing redder by the moment, and you imagined that the combination of heat and embarrassment had to be uncomfortable at best.

“Do I—” He cleared his throat. “Look, we all know what they say—”

“Read. Them.”

Silently appealing for help, he turned to Judy, who simply crossed her arms and waited.

The paper shook in his hand when he picked it up.

“I said to Lauren, if you—” His voice caught in his throat. “If you send nudes it’s a guaranteed A on your midterm. Lauren sent a photo. I said she looked good—”

“Read verbatim, please,” you said.

There was murder in his eyes. “I said, ‘damn you are hot. Come to my house and fuck me and it’s a guaranteed A in class.”

“What did Lauren say?”

“She said, ‘Tell me what you’ll do to me.’”

“And you said?”

He shifted again. “I don’t—come on, can we just—”

“You’re an English professor; certainly it can’t be difficult to read the words you wrote.”

Defeated, he slunk down in his chair, sweat now running down the side of his face. He tugged at his tie. He looked like he wished for nothing more than to disappear between the floorboards and dissolve into dust. He proceeded to read a very detailed and explicit paragraph about all the dirty things he planned to do to Lauren, including telling her that she should call him “professor” in bed. At the end of it, his voice was barely audible.

“And Lauren acquiesced, then.”

“Yes.”

“So you acknowledge that you had an inappropriate relationship with Lauren Miyahira.”

He nodded.

You took a piece of paper out of the folder, closed the folder, re-wound the string, leaned forward, and looked at him. “Sit up.”

He did.

“Then you are in violation of the University Policy on Non-Fraternization, Section Three, Subdivision C. Here is a copy for your reference.” You unfolded the piece of paper and handed it to him; it was the same copy he’d given to you early on in the year, his snarky note written in the margin. “Do you know, I actually believe it belongs to you.”

He took it, staring at you, and crumpled the paper up in his hand. “You are a _fucking bitch,_ ” he seethed, “you petty… vindictive… spiteful…”

You stood up, leaned forward, and placed your hands flat on the table. “Oh, I’m all of those things. But I’m also justified. And you are fired. Clear out your desk by 4:00 p.m. today. If you are in the building past that time, we will consider you trespassing and call the police accordingly.”

He threw the balled-up paper at you and stormed out.

“What a petulant man,” Judy said.

“Should we have called a campus security escort?” said her boss.

You smiled, picturing Chris standing against his car in the faculty parking lot, casually browsing his phone. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  
  
  
  
  



	32. [bonus chapter]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night out with Chris & friends. This takes place between Less is Impossible and No Ordinary World.

The room was loud and you were both drunk. Chris had on one of his elbow-patch cardigans that he’d worn so often during his year teaching, the ones Mika had dubbed “library chic” that Chris stubbornly continued to wear. His glasses kept slipping down his nose every time he laughed a little too hard, and Mika was _on_ tonight, so he was laughing more than he wasn’t.

You were buzzed, behind your eyes and between your legs, as it always seemed to go when you’d been drinking. You looked across the table, at the man you’d married last month, and smiled. The depth of your love for this ridiculous man hit you at the most random moments, and this one—as he unfolded a paper napkin and placed it on top of his head—was no different. You pulled out your phone and texted Chris, even though he was just sitting across the table. _I want to fuck you,_ it said.

He grinned stupidly at his phone. It took him a few tries to type his reply. His napkin hat fell off in the process.

_Seduce me with engaging intellectual intercourse._

“Leave it to you to use big words when you’re smashed,” you said aloud to him, quoting some ‘00s teen movie.

He waggled his eyebrows at you and you threw a pizza crust at him.

An hour later, half of the crew had gone to another bar, while you, Chris, and a few others had wound your way through the city to a little tapas restaurant, bright with neon lights, raucous laughter and conversation around you. You all huddled together with tall glasses of water—Lias was the only member of the party who braved a margarita—and ate your way through a few bowls of guacamole and some appetizers.

“Discourse,” you said suddenly to Chris, apropos of nothing. “Discourse, isn’t it? Not intercourse?”

“English professor talk,” Lias groaned. “Chris, you retired from that.”

“Then it’s Coach to you,” he cracked, and Lias rolled his eyes, polishing off his margarita with a smile. He spun his phone around. “Intercourse, according to Merriam-Webster. One, connection or dealings between persons or groups; two, exchange especially of thoughts or feelings; three, physical sexual contact between individuals that involves the genitalia of at least one person. Merriam-Webster specifically then includes links to definitions of anal and oral intercourse.”

“Why not vaginal intercourse?” you said.

“I’m not the dictionary,” Chris responded.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Lias said. “Elbow patches.”

Mika snorted.

“Okay but intercourse certainly meant sex first.” You scooped a generous amount of guacamole onto your chip.

He continued to research. “First recorded use: 15th century. Sense 1. So, connection or dealings between persons or groups.”

“Orgy,” Artemi piped up, and you howled with laughter.

“Are we having intercourse intercourse?” you asked.

“It’s like the buffalo sentence,” said Chris.

“The buffalo sentence?” Lias raised an eyebrow.

When you’d moved on to the late night dessert kitchen and you were nestled into the round booth next to Chris, Lias still hadn’t gotten over the earlier conversation.

“Are you sober enough to explain the buffalo sentence now?”

Chris grabbed a napkin and diagrammed the sentence as Mika, Lias, and Artemi watched. “I’m not sure if this is going to help three non-native English speakers—did you ever have to diagram sentences?”

Lias’ girlfriend, who was Bronx born and raised, shook her head. “Uhh, I’m lost and I’m a native English speaker.”

You took a deep breath and seized the pen and napkin, writing out the sentence: _Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo._ “There are three meanings of the word ‘buffalo.’” You wrote as you spoke, feeling very much like you were back in your office, sitting across from a student. “One, the animal. Bison. Two, ‘bully.’ Three, the city of Buffalo. So this sentence means—” you drew a picture to help—“those bison from Buffalo who get bullied by other bison from Buffalo also bully other bison who live in Buffalo.”

Artemi blinked blankly at you. “Russian is so much more easy—”

“Noooooooooo,” Chris said, “nope.”

Lias said something to Mika in Swedish and they both laughed.

“What about intercourse?” Mika’s fiancee said. “Intercourse intercourse…” She trailed off.

Mika put an arm around her. “What _about_ intercourse?”

“Three,” you said thoughtfully. “Intercourse intercourse intercourse. Is that…?” You turned to Chris.

He was deep in thought. “I don’t think that—”

“Do you have these conversations _during_ intercourse?” Lias interjected.

You blushed, because you had, in fact, both quoted literature during sex before, and you had been known to lounge in bed after sex with your arms around each other, talking about something related to that world.

Before long, you were all headed your separate ways. Arm-in-arm, you and Chris headed underground to wait for your train.

“So,” you said, toeing the concrete, “have I sufficiently seduced you with engaging intellectual intercourse? Intercourse for intercourse?”

He kissed the crown of your head. “You seduced me with engaging intellectual intercourse the first day I met you. The Maypole of Merry Mount has been at your disposal ever since.”

You groaned, the sound echoing. “Chris, we are NOT calling it that. Even though I appreciate the Hawthorne reference.”

“It could be festive.” He was still tipsy, you noted. “We could tie streamers from the head.”

You smacked him with your purse. “I think we need less of this type of intercourse.”

He grinned, adjusted his glasses, and leaned in to kiss you. He smelled of chocolate and pepper and the faintest whisper of vodka. “More of this type,” he whispered, reaching around to grab your ass as the train pulled up.


End file.
